The Lioness & The Pup
by Jon Stargaryen
Summary: I get that it's a weird concept, but role with it: Jaime is forced to stay in King's Landing during the visit to Winterfell to aquire the new hand. Without her brother around how will the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms cope.
1. Pride

**THE LIONESS**

Anger was not the proper word for what Cersei felt, sitting at the high table of Winterfell's Great Hall as her _loving husband_ , saw fit to honor her with a wench on his lap, her teats in one hand and a cup of ale in the other. Of course it was not unusual for Robert to openly dishonor her for all to see, though it was unusual for Jaime to be absent when she felt the need comfort, as well as the need to privately dishonor her husband later.

Before embarking on their journey to the frozen hell that is the North, Robert ordered Jaime to stay in Kings Landing, insisting that having the Kingslayer in his party would only hinder his efforts; by the gods she hated that moniker, hated the scorn Robert chastised Jaime with, how the name still caused him to cringe every so often. In addition to Jaime, none of her Lannister kin other than her vile imp of a brother had been allowed to come, and that was because her children asked so fervently.

Thus the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms found herself surrounded on all sides by Northmen and Roberts courtiers, neither providing much comfort.

Glancing towards Robert, seeing a new serving wench on his lap, this one with an even heavier bosom, Cersei decided to preserve what little dignity she had on this evening. Looking to Lady Stark who, for her part was still trying to engage her in conversation, she rose from her seat.

Clearly startled by the sudden movement, Lady Stark made to inquire on her health. "Your Grace? Are you unwell?"

Remembering her courtesies, Cersei placed a forced smile to her lips. "Of course. I merely find the evenings festivities to be exhausting." She said, with far more warmth than she felt. "I believe I should retire."

Lady Stark bows her head in deference, not forcing the subject further, for which Cersei is grateful. She makes her way from the high table, spotting a half-sleeping Tommen as she goes, jostling him awake. He only protest slightly, rubbing his eyes as they make their way to the exit, where a steward awaits them.

With their guide in tow, they make their way through the ancient castle, Cersei glancing upon the stone with less than mild fascination; she vaguely wonders how long the castle has stood, though pushing away those thoughts as their party arrives at Tommen's chambers.

Dismissing the steward, she calls for Tommen's handmaidens to undress, bathe and redress him, watching her golden cub as they follow her orders. Once they are done, she helps tuck him in, pressing a kiss to his golden crown. She moves for the door, looking back once with a smile to see her cub nestled in his sheets, then exiting to make for her own rooms.

She arrives at her chambers, swiftly dismissing her maids before resting upon one of the lounges provided in her temporary chambers. Her anger holds root within her, refusing to abate as she feels her core ache for what is denied her. She continues to rearrange herself, restless in her skin as she tries in vain to forget the aching in her loins.

Giving in to her compulsion, she reaches for her furs, draping herself in warmth before she leaves her chambers hoping the night air will sooth her. She makes her way through the corridors, tracing the steps of the steward until she emerges from the keep victorious.

Her expectations of being the only soul not enjoying the festivities are shattered, looking on as her imp brother converses with another occupant of the yard. Despite her expectations of an awkward encounter with the pair, her brother moves on, clearly done with the conversation, leaving the boy in the yard.

The boy returned to the center of the yard, brandishing a blunted tourney sword in his hand as he began to train in earnest. As he moved his sword, Cersei could not help the wonder she felt at watching him. He moved as though his sword were a part of him, an extension of his arm. He shifted and whirled and parried against unseen enemies. For a few moments, Cersei thought the boy resembled Jaime, with his graceful style and quick hands.

As he turned in a wide arch facing her, she realized that the comparisons stopped there. Jaime was tanned and golden like the sun itself, though this boy was pale of skin and dark of hair, like the night sky framing the moon. While Jaime's face always boar an easy smile, this boy seemed sullen. Looking back at her, instead of emerald orbs that matched her own, grey the color of beaten steel locked on her own.

The boy dropped to a knee in front of her, his final stroke melting into his kneel and his sword rested at his front foot and knee. "Your Grace." He looked up to her, showing his face.

He had the Stark face, long and guarded, though unlike his father who was passable, the boy was comely in a roughly hewn sort of way.

She stepped forward. "Rise." He nodded lifting himself to his feet. "It cannot be comfortable, kneeling in the snow." She noticed how he shifted uncomfortably, softening her features to be more approachable. "Every soul in the castle is either on the walls or in the Great Hall, other than you?"

He looked down to his feet. "You are here as well Your Grace?"

She chuckles lightly at this, causing the boy to look up at her face, a small smirk playing at his lips. "I found the festivities to be less than satisfying." She said, shifting to lessen the ache in her core. "Why are you not enjoying the festivities?"

His lips turned down at that, shifting into a frown before slipping into a mask of indifference. "Much the same as you, Your Grace." He took up the tourney sword, polishing it lightly before replacing it in a nearby rack.

Her eyes followed him with curiosity. "You are quite skilled for a boy of your age." She said, grabbing hold of his attention s he turned back to her. "Would you care to act as my escort for the evening? I seem to have forgotten my Kingsguard. "

He regarded her with something akin to caution. "Lady Stark thought that the presence of a bastard might upset yourself or the King." He shifted slightly, his hand gripped tightly at his breeches.

She laughed lightly, trying to lift the mood, incidentally startling the young man. "Robert has several bastards tucked away around the realm, possibly even in the Westerlands." He looked surprised at that. "And I asked you to escort me, certainly that is permissible?" She raised a brow to him, watching the color rise in his face.

He straightened his back, trying to seem taller and more alert, then cleared his throat. "If it please the Your Grace, I shall escort you." He put out an arm. "Where should you wish to go?"

Cersei could not return to the heat, the cold being the only thing calming the stirring in her loins. "I should like you to tour the grounds. I wish to see more of Winterfell through your eyes-" it was then she realized that she had never asked his name.

As if picking up on the unspoken question the boy opened his mouth to speak. "My name is Jon. Jon Snow."

The next hour was a blur, between walking around the gods wood and armory and the glass gardens, she lost herself. Jon guided her through the gods wood, stopping before the heart tree, admiring its grotesque carved face dripping red sap, as if crying blood. He told her that many generations of Starks worshipped before the tree. From there they went to the kennels, to look at some of the castle dogs as Jon compared his direwolf pup, who seemed to materialize in an instant and vanished just as quickly. From there, the pair doubled back to the Glass Gardens, Jon spouting historical details about the Kings of the North and their accomplishments, the entire way there. When they made it to the glass gardens, Jon taught her about how the harsh climates make it near impossible to grow food in many of the lands of the North, but the glass gardens allow the land to receive light without the risk being covered in snow. As if to prove his point, he plucked a blue rose from the ground, presenting it to her gallantly. She accepted her favor graciously, clipping the stem and wearing it in her hair.

Eventually they made their way to a dilapidated structure, the roof caved in and several windows missing. Her escort looked back to her with a wolffish smile, extending his hand in an open gesture. "Do you trust me Your Grace?" He asked, clearly not expecting a real answer from a woman he just met.

She nodded in response, stifling her urge snort, grabbing his hand and accepting his guidance into the tower. He led her passed downed beams and crumbling walls, up dusty obstructed stairs, leading her to the top of the keep where Winterfell could be seen in its entirety. From this vantage point, open to the world, the once dreary castle seemed alive with the bustle of its inhabitants to and fro and the lively noise coming from the Great Hall.

"This is one of my favorite places in all of Winterfell." He declare solemnly. "It may not be much to someone who has spent their entire life to the south, but to me it seems so-" the words seem to elude him at this point. "Wondrous."

Cersei turned to him with an appraising look.

"I'll be joining the watch soon. When I do I'll have to leave this all behind. I shall be married to my vows." He said, again answering questions not asked.

She wondered why a boy so young would willingly go to a glorified prison. He would never experience the joys of looking down upon his first child, or the passion of making love for the first time. And with that she was reminded of the dull aching inside of her, needing a release. Realizing that her hand was still clutched in his, she wiggled her fingers to stop them from stiffening.

Jon clearly took that as a sign of her discomfort, removing his hand from her grasp and taking several steps back. She moved toward him slowly, like a lion cornering its prey, making sure he did not flee. "You seem nervous Jon." She advanced even further. "Do highborn ladies make you nervous, with our lethal skirts and needles?" She giggled, seeing the tension leave his shoulders.

She needed her release and by his own admission he was leaving for the Wall soon, never to be heard from again. If there was a better option available to find her release, she could not think of one; he was young strong and virile, though he may be a green boy, he could be trained. And none would ever know; just Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell and his Queen.

"Have you ever lain with a woman Jon Snow?" She asked having made her mind. She advanced on him, the tension returning to his shoulders.

"I- you mean- Your Grace?" He eloquently responded. His face quickly turning Lannister Crimson, as he shifted away only to hit a wall.

No longer being able to contain herself, she surged forward trapping his body with hers, trapping his lips with her mouth. Jon resisted, her lips moving softly against his to no avail. She believed all hope was lost when she felt his lips part, a subtle moan escaping his mouth. "That's it." She whispered against his lips. "Share this moment with me." She ran a hand along his flat stomach trailing down to his breeches and cupping his manhood in her palm. "Share your first with me." He breathed into his mouth, jostling him in her hand.

He moved his head away from hers tenuously, fighting the compulsion to give in to desire. "We cannot." He breathed heavily. "I cannot dishonor my king, your lord husband." He grabbed the sides of her face, looking directly into her eyes, his steel orbs hardening with resolve. "I cannot dishonor you."

She smooths a hand down his chest, then migrates to the back of his neck. "You owe him nothing." She pulled his face to look into her eyes. "Do you think his thoughts rest with me while he is with his whores? That my honor is a concern of his?" She looks into his grey pools imploringly. "I need to feel someth-"

Her next words are never spoke as Jon, moves his mouth back to hers, moving with more fervor and intent than before.

Without pause her hands move to his breeches, unlacing the troublesome garments and shoving them down his thighs, exposing his small clothes which suffer the same fate. Jon removes his doublet and tunic with great haste discarding them on the floor.

He then moves to turn her around, moving to her laces. She turns on him holding his hands steady by the wrists. "No. It will take too long to remove and much longer to redress." Jon nods breathing heavily, kicking his boots free and completely removing his breeches and small clothes, tossing them to the side.

Looking over his body, she could have done far worse; he was lean and strong his muscles heavily defined. She moved her eyes over his manhood, stiff and strong. She couldn't help the comparison to her love; while Jaime was certainly large and grand in her eyes, Jon was longer by a section of her little finger and thicker still.

She immediately felt shame at the comparison; Jaime would always be her one true love, Jon was a mere distraction, a temporary tool until she returned to Jaime.

Her thoughts were broken as Jon placed her against the wall, lifting her skirts and sliding his hand over her mound, slowly caressing her folds. She grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand toward her mouth, kissing the fingers. "Now take your hand and rub inside of me softly."

He did as she asked, rubbing his two fingers inside of her, flicking them across her sex. "Good." She whispered in his ear, encouraging him in the right direction. Jon looked beneath, her skirts causing her to snicker. "What are you looking- Oh!" She did not finish her thought, for as she tried Jon shifted the hood of her pearl, attacking it with his palm while his fingers twitched and dipped inside of her. It only took a moment for her to come undone, as he worked diligently at her mound. Her peak was rising steadily within her, her belly tight with anticipation, just a little further and she would lose herself. And then it stopped.

Cersei looked to Jon, heat rising in her cheeks, though he was not focused on her face. He lifted her skirts higher, as if looking underneath. Then without warning, he dipped bellow her billowing fabrics, vanishing. Cersei made to protest the loss of contact until his lips brushed her sex, putting her leg over his shoulder to open her more.

She instantly resumed her crashing peak as Jon began to lick her, massaging her folds with his fingers, his lips and tongue occupied her pearl, sucking and licking and stabbing her way to a sweet release. He gripped the back of her thigh that was still attached to the floor, as she crashed around him, his tongue still on her, his fingers still within her. She began to crumple forward as strong arms made to brace her against the walls.

Her head began to clear, as his face came into view again, concern marring his beautiful features. "Did I harm you your grace?"

She chuckled weakly. "No. Certainly not." She breathed out heavily. "Where did you learn such a thing?" She asked with genuine curiosity.

He blushed innocently. "Some of the guards talk about pleasing their women." He told her, the red in his face increasing. "They talked about using your mouth, so I tried it." He seemed so young in that moment. So innocent.

Then he lifted he skirts once more, one hand moving to her mound, the other to his cock. He looked into her eyes, silently asking for her permission.

Cersei grabbed hold of his manhood in one hand, the other arm draping over his shoulder, then nodded he permission just before he thrust inside of her, her hand as his guide.

For a moment she held him there, basking in the fullness of her loins. For the first time since she parted with Jaime, she felt full and satisfied. Then Jon began moving slowly inside of her shoving her harder against the wall, content to simply move inside of her for a few strokes before picking up speed. It continued for a short while until she felt the tell tale sign of a mans release, Jon twitching inside of her as his movements became slower and more stiff right before he spilled his seed within her.

He stood there, still sheathed within her for several moments breathing heavily, before looking into her eyes. He must have seen something displeasing, for he turned his head, his cheeks inflamed once more.

She grimaced, placing a hand to his cheek him. "You did well. After all I was your first." She could not help feeling regret at the hurt look in his eyes.

The hurt only lasted a moment as he looked to her with something akin to wounded pride, before straightening his back and diving deep within her, much deeper than before bucking his hips into her heat. Before long she had wrapped both arms around his shoulders, her knees to his waist. He gripped her thighs roughly as he delved inside of her bringing her to her release, forcing her to bite his shoulder. She swore to herself that she heard him roar as he released his seed within her once more.

She collapsed against the wall, Jon still inside of her as her breathing began to slow.

He locked eyes with her, lust clouding everything his gaze. She grabbed his manhood once more, stroking him to his full hardness, as she grinned at him almost matching his own smirk.

He took her thrice more that evening, in varying positions, lasting different amounts of time. He would make love to her as best he could, followed by asking her if she was satisfied. If he was not satisfied with the response his work garnered he would try again. He brought her to her peak several times, though he was never truly sated.

Eventually, they both collapsed onto the furs that were discarded four couplings ago. They were tangled up in one another, Jon's manhood still sheathed within her growing softer by the second.

Jon untangle himself from her, rolling over so that he still lay atop her, though at a more comfortable angle, his softened manhood warm against her thigh, his head against her breast.

She lye there stroking his hair, enjoying the feeling of warmth beside her, the feeling of a strong handsome man inside of her, one that she does not despise. He is no man, he is a boy, a voice within her chided.

She does not remember falling asleep, or how long he has been asleep, though when she wakes the sky is still dark. She turns her head to see Jon still collapsed around her, his right hand clutching her breast in a territorial way. She moves a hand to his hair, combing through his locks gently. He stirs around her, flexing the hand latched to her bosom, forcing a giggle from her throat. "You have a singular focus."

He smiles sleepily, opening his eyes to look upon her face as she moves away from him. She stands shakily, her strength still waning until she felt strong arms wrap around her waist. "Are you unwell your grace?" Jon breathed onto her neck, his manhood poking through the fabrics other dress.

"I believe so." She sighed. "Though I'm afraid I don't have the energy I once did." She turned to him smiling at the confusion on his face.

She looked down his body and his eyes followed, as if not realizing his current state of undress until just now. "My apologies Your Grace!" He began to scrabble about the room searching for his clothing, laying a hand on his breeches first before looking down to her feet. Her eyes captured his line of sight landing on his small clothing at her feet.

She bent down to pick them from the floor, Jon protesting the obscenity of it the entire time. "You were inside of me until recently. I believe we can put aside propriety." She said handing him his bottoms.

She wrung her hands around one another as she prepared herself for what was to come next. "It is best you tell no one about us." He looked to meet her eyes, something akin to disappointment alive in them. "Bedding the King's wife is no small feat, even if your father is Warden of the North." She stepped toward him. "If any knew of this, both our heads would adorn the walls of the Red Keep." The look of absolute terror in his eyes steeled her nerves. She gripped the front of his tunic, near his stomach. "I will call for you when I am ready."

He looked at her in confusion. "Your Grace?" His question was answered with a deep kiss to his lips, their lips once again locked in heated battle, their tongues fighting for dominance until finally Cersei stepped away.

For a moment she stood still, appraising her new lover, looking over his entire body, stopping briefly at his manhood, once again standing at attention.

She walked out of the room in the broken tower, finding way back down the stairs and into the night without her guide smiling the entire time.


	2. A Change of Fate

**THE WOLF PUP**

The past fortnight since he'd first lain with the Queen was like something out of green-boys fantasy, heated and hectic and dangerous.

Many a evening he would return to his chambers to find a sheet of parchment penned in the Cersei's own hand placed under his door, inside of his trouser pockets or if she were feeling particularly bold, she would deposit them into his hands in passing. These secret missives were usually in few words and extremely vague, The tower or My chambers or his personal favorite: Tonight.

The first evening he received the message bearing but a single word, he must have walked the entire castle looking for her until he eventually gave up, returning to his chambers to find his Queen, standing in the shadows waiting for him. From that night onward, he took the meaning that 'tonight' was code for finding him in his rooms after dark and waking the castle.

Each time she would come before him, modestly dressed and unadorned by her silks and jewelry, as to draw less attention. This incidentally made removing her clothing much simpler, though assisting her into her clothing was still a burden, covering her beauty for another day or two.

Some might have argued that she was not as beautiful without her flowing silks and baubles, though Jon was not of this opinion; he found that his Queen had a natural beauty, one that shone brightest when framed by simplistic design. In fact a Jon found her ravishing in her simple gowns, hair cascading loosely over her shoulders and just above her bosom, an almost teasing gesture, her beautiful flaxen tresses framing an incomparably beautiful face.

His thought tended to drift to Cersei more often than not these days, especially before they were to meet. Thus his thoughts were plagued by his Golden Queen as he stood outside of the Broken Tower, waiting for her arrival. They were to meet here during the day, as most of the castle's men had joined the King's hunt along with Lord Stark, leaving the women to their gossip and sewing, while the children would play.

Jon had not joined their party, having caught a rather harsh chill the evening prior, causing illness and fatigue. Though it was no real loss to them, for the King should not suffer a lowly bastard such as himself.

Of course this was all just an excuse to steal away with his love. Though she is not your lady, a small voice within him chided. He pointedly ignored his more rational side, instead choosing half truths, she loves me, she gave herself to me.

The voice spoke true; she would never belong to him, always to the king, always to another. They would never walk under the sun together, though they had walked the Glass Gardens on many a sleepless night. She would never speak his name in the presence of others, though alone in the howling winds of the broken keep, she would roar it like her family words suggest.

So drawn into his thoughts, he almost missed the sound of stiff grass and snow crunching under light feet, the sound of someone not used to the snow and frozen foliage of the North. He knew who it was, though he humored her, letting her soft hands caress his eyes.

"Guess who." She said, the smile on her face clear in her voice as she nibbled his neck. She was in a playful mood today and he would indulge her antics.

Jon feigned ignorance, shifting his head from side to side in mock confusion. "Might you be the maiden, with your voice so fair?" He waxed poetic, pulling one of her hands away from his eye, bringing it to her lips, kissing the palm.

He turned back to look at her. Beautiful. He then looked around, assuring himself that none had followed either of them, then he lead her into the tower. Again, they crept up the stairs over and under broken beams and passed broken walls until they finally reached their sanctuary.

He looked around the room, staring at the simplistic paradise he had built them; a large four-posted featherbed on a wooden dais, draped in furs for warmth. Next to it was a table with a large stone bowl, for housing their clothes and washing their love from one another. It had taken several nights to get the furniture into their haven, slowly but surely creating an atmosphere of comfort, in an otherwise dreary and uncomfortable space.

He turned his attention back to her, in her plain dress with her hair worn down. Perfection. Like the Maiden made flesh as the southron say, though to him she was his Lioness.

His thoughts were cut short as she made to undress, unlacing her bodice. Jon surged forward, tossing aside his tunic and doublet with practiced finesse, his hands moving to the laces of his breeches as their lips collided momentarily. He laid a trail of kisses along her jaw, moving to her neck, nipping at her exposed flash as she presented it, making his way to her breasts. He kissed her left breast first, taking her nipple into his mouth, suckling like a babe at the breast as she groaned into his ear. He took notice of this as he did much the same to the right nipple before trailing fire down her flesh once more. When he reaches the apex of her thighs, where the thatch of blonde curls lay hidden, he pauses placing a kiss to her mound.

Then he began in earnest, removing the hood from her pearl with his tongue, looking into her eyes assuring her consent. Her head nodded, an almost imperceptible gesture, forcing him into action. He attacked her pearl, sucking it into his mouth and stabbing it with his tongue. His hands instantly went to work, one to her belly holding her in place against the wall, the other traveling and teasing her folds and dipping inside of her, tongue still teasing her pearl.

He works diligently at her as always, teasing and suckling and flicking his fingers within her until he makes her crumble before him gripping his hair tightly, she screams. "Oh gods... Jon... You must-"

She didn't finish her thought. Before she could she came to a shuddering peak, her arousal splattering his chin and his lips. She begins to crumple to the ground before he rises to catch her. She smiles at him before placing a kiss to his lips taking the lower in her mouth, no doubt tasting herself. She then pulls away, observing the look on his face as she wipes his lip with a thumb.

"Don't look so smug. It's not attractive in a man?" She said with feigned annoyance before a matching smile adorned her face.

Before he could respond she got to her knees before him, using their discarded clothing as a cushion as she removed his small clothes. His cock sprang to life as soon as it touched her hand, proud and hard. She moved her head forward coming before his cock, then she licked him from his base to his tip. He felt his manhood twitch before she took him into her mouth, bobbing her head back and forth massaging his sack as she swirled her tongue around his shaft before creating a suction with her mouth causing him to writhe in pleasure. He was so close to his release now, his mind nearly going numb as he rasped out, "My Queen, I am close."

She understood, letting his cock leave her lips with a pop, stroking him to his release as he spilled on her bosom.

She smiled at this, making to stand as he extended his hands for her to take, which she did graciously. Stepping passed him she walked to the feather bed turning back to look at him before lying on her back and motioning for him to come to her.

He feigned ignorance, looking around as if she were talking to another. She laughed and rolled to her belly calling to him over her shoulder. "Would you like to fuck me Ser Snow?"

He moved forward placing his knees to either side of hers. "How crass My Queen." he whispers into her ear. "That language should be reserved for a brothel." he said, biting he back, pulling her up on all fours placing her hands to the low rising headboard.

Gripping her hip with a hand, he used the other to guide himself into her heat, plunging into her sex and quickly finding his rhythm.

Their hands fought for space on the headboard as the struggled to keep steady as the bed shook.

Jon was now hunched over behind her, his chest pressed to her back. Their skin was slick with sweat, touching with each thrust he made. He let one hand drop beneath them, fondling her breasts as he pumped inside of her. They roar and growled and grunted as their sigils suggested.

They continued their lovemaking until they heard a shuffling sound outside of the window.

They froze in position, Jon still sheathed within her sex. He leaned in to whisper in her ear. "Get under the furs."

He pulled out of her suddenly, causing her to gasp as he rushed to put on his small clothes, then his breeches. As he threw on his tunic he looked back to see that his lover was beneath the furs, random strands of her hair splayed out in the open.

He inched closer to the broken window, grabbing a splintered beam as a weapon. If this person had malicious intentions, he would protect her with his life. That thought was still at the fore of his mind when he made it to the window.

Quick as a snapping wolf he reach out and grabbed the interloper, who seemed lighter than what he expected; with one hand he pulled their weight into the room, coming face to face with Bran, his baby brother.

With a mixture of a sigh and a laugh, he pulled Bran further into the room. This was the best case scenario; Bran was the intruder, which meant if he were convincing enough he could easily get rid of him. Cersei was out of sight and his disheveled appearance can be blamed on climbing into the tower. His focus snapped back to Bran as he settled on a plan.

"Brandon Stark!" His brother looks to him with fear and shame. "What did your mother tell you about climbing while the royal procession is here?"

The boy looked down to his feet, suddenly very interested in his boots.

Jon moved his hand from Bran's collar, softly placing it to his shoulder encouraging him to look up. As he did, the fear and worry in his eyes seemed to give way to regret. "But everyone is gone, I wouldn't bother anyone." He whined.

"That's not the point Brandon." He used his full name to express his displeasure plainly. "You gave your mother your word that you would not climb while we had guests. You're a Stark, your word should mean more to you."

Bran frowned at this. "I'm sorry." He hung his head.

Jon squeezed his shoulder. "Sorry doesn't cover it Bran. Do better." He started to lead Bran out of the tower.

They were at the door to the chamber when Bran stopped, looking around the room, likely noticing the furniture and clothing strewn on the table. He turned to Jon scrunching up his face. "What are you doing here?"

Jon had to pause at that, hearing a gasp from his love under the furs, which Bran must've heard as he turned. Jon pulled his attention back to himself. "I was too unwell to go on the hunt, so father asked me to look for some things in the Broken Tower. And I found some ladies clothing and furs." He threw together the lie hoping it would work.

"Ok." Bran didn't question. They left the tower together, making it down to the bottom and into the courtyard, where Jon sent Bran on his way with a promise to not climb.

He stood in the cold for a few moments absorbing the feeling on his skin, then heading back into the tower, making his way to the chamber. Our chamber.

When he entered Cersei was still under the furs. He put his hand on the silhouette of her body. "It's safe now."

She slowly poked her head from under the furs, the look of bewilderment on her face was adorable. "He almost saw us." She smiled as the hilarity of the situation dawned on her. She looked down to his hand placed on her sex. "You seem naturally drawn to that spot." She wiggled an eyebrow before resting her weight on her elbows, exposing her breasts beneath the fur.

He surged forward trapping her lips with his own, biting and licking. They did this for what felt like hours, time slowing around them as they were trapped in a battle of lips and tongues.

When at last they broke apart, Cersei gave an audible sigh of displeasure, her eyes still closed to the world. He moved forward to whisper in her ear. "We must return eventually lest your husband send out a search party." Her nibbled the flesh at the apex of her ear.

She pushed him away playfully, standing from the bed laying her body bare to him as she reached for her clothing. She turned back to him, securing her small clothes with a wiggle of her body, her firm arse bouncing freely before being enslaved by her clothing. She then went about meticulously dressing herself, making absolutely sure not a stitch of her wardrobe was out of place.

When she was done he stepped forward, wrapping an arm around her, his hand resting at her belly. With the other, he shifted her golden hair from her neck before placing soft and loving kisses to her skin there. She shuddered beneath his caress, shaking lightly in his embrace. He went about this for a few moments until he lifted his mouth to her ear. "I shall think of you each night on the wall." She turned in his embrace as he repositioned his hand on her lower back. "Your lips." He brushed her mouth with his, running his hand through her hair. "Your golden locks." He pressed his forehead to hers. "And most importantly your eyes."

She pursed her lips, looking to be contemplating their inevitable separation. "It doesn't have to be that way." She opens her mouth again but the words seem to evade her, until she seems to have found the right words. "I can convince Robert to bring you with us, you can squire for any knight of the Kingsguard, like Ser Barristan or even-" the words seem to die in her throat. "Either way you can come with me, and we can be together. You can make a name for yourself." She looks at him, her emerald eyes pleading.

"The Watch-" he started.

"Is a glorified penal colony. Most of the seven kingdoms send their worst criminals there." She looked him in the eye, grabbing his face to force him to look at her. "Your brothers will be rapists and thrives and murderers." She kissed him, this time deeper and harder, like she was trying to convince him. It was like wanted show him the life that he could live should he leave with her. "You can come with me. Be with me, love me. I will be your Watch."

He stepped forward, pressing his body flush against hers. "If that is your wish, I would be happy to serve my Queen."


	3. Family

THE LIONESS

"Jon!" She screamed his name into his shoulder as she rode out her peak atop him, biting him savagely.

She stilled atop him, his manhood still sheathed within her as she caught her breathe, exhausted from their coupling. After a few moments breathe, she dismounted him, leaving him spent on her sheets, panting like a common pup as she settled next to him on the bed.

In the time time that had passed since Jon agreed to come south with her, leaving The Wall behind, he had spent nearly every moment beside her, her every-present shadow until his duties squiring for Ser Barristan begin.

She felt a rough wetness against her hand, lapping at her skin there. Looking down, she noticed Jon's direwolf Ghost licking at her arms, looking at her with intelligent eyes. She wrapped her hands about the direwolf's head, mussing his fur as he burrowed his head into her arms sniffing at her belly. You can feel it, can't you, she thought to herself as Ghost licked at her belly, then moved to rest his massive body across her legs. She half-giggled, half-grunted at the additional weight to her person.

Her thoughts were yanked back to Jon, taking a lock of her hair and whirling it around his finger. "Like spun gold." He huffed out, lying on the bed still very much naked, bringing a smile to her face.

She sat there, stroking Ghost behind his ears as those crimson eyes stared back at her, like pools of blood. Her hands migrate to the patch of hair beneath his muzzle, invoking a yawn from the great beast.

The bedding shifted as Jon moved behind her, arranging his legs to either side of her, arms wrapping about her middle. He placed a chaste kiss to the nape of her neck, brightening the smile on her face, increasing the flutter in her belly. "You." He blows into her ear before taking it between his lips, nibbling on her lobe. "Are going." He kisses the skin behind her ear where he knew she was sensitive. "To spoil him." He said, biting her back gently, careful not to leave a mark; Robert did not seem to notice the marks, though it would do no good to bring undue attention.

She turned her head, placing a hand to his cheek as she rubbed his face before placing a soft chaste kiss to his lips, smiling against his mouth. "Like I do his master?"

Jon moved back slightly and feigned insult, causing her smile to broaden. "So, you spoil me now?" He grinned broadly, lifting her up as she began to shriek jovially, then spun her about the room. Her joy did not last, for her stomach began to lurch. She patted his arm, a silent instruction to release her, which he followed dutifully.

He set her down on the bed, moving around her to examine her face. "Have I hurt you my Queen?" He looked into her eyes, the concern clear in his voice as well as his face.

She placed a hand to his shoulder, a slight smile on her face to reassure him. "I am fine. My stomach is just a bit unsettled." The relief in his eyes is instant as he leans in, placing a kiss to her forehead. He moves away, a ridiculous grin in place when he moves away, taking his clothing in hand.

Jon moves away from her as he dresses himself, swiftly lacing his breeches and doublet. He then motions for Ghost to leave her tent, retaking his seat on her bedding, closing his eyes and silently slipping into some sort of meditation. This was not a strange occurrence; he does this each time before leaving her tent, sending the wolf out first, sitting in meditation momentarily before leaving himself.

He stands abruptly. "Your Grace." He kisses her forehead once more. "I promised to meet Bran and Arya today. Father has posted me as their escort." He says before bowing his head to her, backing out of her tent to join his wolf.

Cersei sits on her bed for a few moments, coming down from her reverie before her day must begin in earnest. After a few moments more, she moves from her bed to the mirror that has been placed in her tent. She turns to the side, examining her profile, hands rubbing over the barely visible rise in her belly. You must tell him eventually, the voice in her head chides. She thinks of how either of them would react; Jon may not behave poorly, he was a kind soul, always looking to make her smile. Robert, for all of his faults, tended to treat her well when she was with child.

Cersei slipped into her nightshift, calling for her handmaidens to enter and dress her for the day to come. In the back of her mind, she wondered how the women missed a large white wolf and a man of five and ten, though part of his appeal was discretion.

The women went about drawing her bath, bringing in jar after jar of warm water, pouring rose-oil into the bath for fragrance. The women scrubbed her skin, lathering in the smell of the oils. When they were done, she rose from the tub allowing them to pat her dry before they went about draping her in the gown she would wear, silk Lannister Crimson with Myrish lace along the leaves and gold woven into the bodice. The style was such that it did not lace around her abdomen, allowing her to continue pretending that she was not with child. She stroked her belly thoughtfully, wondering what this babe would look like; would he be like his true father, a northerner through and through, or would she be like her mother, sun-kissed and golden haired.

One of her maids caught her reminiscing, smiling at the queen. "How far along are you?" The woman asked with a smile. She must have read the look on Cersei's face, for she made to continue. "I know the look of an expecting mother."

Cersei smiled, letting out a shuddering breath. "Two moons maybe. I cannot be certain." She said hoarsely before clearing her throat.

"The King must've been happy to hear the news?" One of the others asked, and Cersei choked back a scoff, straightening her face.

"He does not know." She replied curtly and sternly, saying all that need be said with that: And he shall not know until I see fit.

With that she made to leave her tents, only for one of her household guard to rush into her path. "Your Grace, there has been trouble at the ford. The Crown Prince is injured."

Cersei felt her chest tighten at that, all thoughts of her unborn child were shoved aside as she rushed to find her firstborn. Her mind was in a daze as events continued to swirl around her. She knew that the younger Stark girl and her wolf had attacked her boy, though no one knew where the girl or her brother went, Jon having went to search for his sister. The other Stark, Brandon, was with his father, though she was certain that Jon mentioned being with both his brother and sister.

By the time the sun fell in beneath the horizon, Cersei had exhausted herself, heading back to her tent. Her handmaidens took their time undressing her, now mindful of the child growing within her. After the women left her, Cersei made to climb into her bed, stopping when she stepped on a hard object, hearing the clink of metal as she disturbed it. She reached down, taking hold of the sword belt with both the sword and dagger still sheathed within it.

Cersei climbed into her bed, cold and alone, though the furs covered her well enough; she clutched the belt to her body, making a note to place them in her luggage on the morrow. She fell into a troubled sleep, tossing in her bed, throwing her furs to and fro. So troubled was he sleep that she did not notice the presence of the great furry wolf next to her.

For Cersei, the days after her Joffrey's attack flew by in a daze; Jon was still out searching for his sister, though he did leave Ghost to watch over her, ever the silent guardian. When they received word of the Stark girl being found without her wolf, she was furious. Their men had found them before the Stark guards, having her brought before herself and Robert. They were not waiting long before Lord Stark arrived, fuming at the treatment of his daughter.

The children argued about their versions of events, Joffrey saying the butcher's boy and Arya attacked him and then set the wolf on him, Arya claimed that Joffrey attacked her while she was playing with the butcher's boy. In the end it came down to Sansa, the simple girl that she was, seemed to have lost her memory of the altercation, much to her sisters dismay.

She wanted revenge. She wanted blood for the injury to he son. "What of the injury to my son? How do you plan to rectify this situation?" She said, her voice cold and detached. "Someone must be punished for this."

Cersei's anger abated when Jon stepped forward, shielding his sister. "Your Grace. If I may be so forward, I believe we should treat this as what it is, the actions of children taken too far."

To speak against him tore at her heart. Between her lover and her children, she would always choose her children; be it Jaime or Jon, her children would come first. Fortunately she did not have to choose, for just as she opened her mouth the breathless form of Bran Stark appeared in the hall before the assemble nobles and men at arms.

Upon seeing her younger brother Arya Stark began to scream, "Bran was there. He saw it all." she turned to her brother "Tell them what happened. Tell them what he did." The hall erupted into murmurs and shouts calling for the seven year old to speak.

"SILENCE! All of you." The King yelled causing the hall to become eerily calm, before turning to a shaking Brandon Stark. "Now tell it true boy. What happened."

Bran looked to his shoes for a long moment, elongating the silence of the hall. His eyes rose falling to his father, who nodded encouragement, then to the king. He rose his head looking directly into Robert's deep blue eyes. "Well.. Arya and Micah- I mean the butcher's son were playing at swords by the ford and I was watching." He scrunched his face as if trying to remember, eyes never leaving the King. "Then the prince and Sansa came and the prince wanted to fight Micah, but I don't know why. He took out his sword but Micah only had a stick." He began to rock back and forth nervously, the attention clearly making him uncomfortable. "Arya tried to defend Micah but the prince knocked her down and pointed his sword at her." His eyes lit up before he told the last part. "And then Nymeria bit the prince and he dropped his sword and started to cry." At this the boy began to giggle as the hall erupted in raucous laughter.

This all ended when Joffrey began to advance on the boy, swords were drawn by all: Northmen, royalists or the Castle Darry guards. Her eyes immediately fell on Jon who was still without his arms, having never returned to collect them.

Robert pounded his fist on the arm of his seat. "Sheath your swords, all of you. We are guests in this house." The men took their time returning their weapons, the Northmen only doing so at Lord Stark's insistence. Robert then turned his attention to Joffrey. "Now you!" His voice was low and threatening. "You will behave according to your station. You will be King one day." His voice rises steadily "How do you expect men to follow you if they cannot trust your word."

Robert turned to the assembled men at guards, servants and men at arms rubbing his brow. "Let it be done with this. Call it a squabble between children." He looked to his new Hand, nodding his head to him as the gesture was returned.

"Those beasts are not coming to the capital. They are far too dangerous." She said with a tone brooked no argument.

Robert nodded in acquiescence as the Stark children shrieked and cried, each giving their own argument to the lack of fairness.

As Lord Stark calmed his children and made arrangements for a contingent of men to lead the animals to the back north to Winterfell, she watched the crowd for her lover, seeing his back as he left the hall, never looking back to the dais. Never looking back to her.

Cersei, having had enough excitement for one evening, hastened back to her quarters, her ladies following her wake. One of her ladies opened her chamber door, allowing Cersei to enter as the others filed in, fluttering around the room preparing her for bed. A warm bath was filled for her, the usual mixture of assorted oils added to the water giving it a lovely aroma. Her handmaidens rushed forward to help her out of the restrictive gown she wore, though as the moved about her she felt a familiar sensation.

She quickly motioned for the women to clear her path as she lurched forward, bracing her hands on the rim of the basin and releasing the contents of her stomach. She had to tell him, her husband and her lover; both need to know what the future holds for them, for the sake of this new life involved

She immediately ordered her handmaidens to redress her in modest clothing, giving little attention to her hair or gaudy adornments. For this trip she had to be as common as possible.

She left he quarters in a a thin woolen dress of muddy green, her hair worn loosely around her shoulders and her body unadorned with finery. The Queen walked the corridors of castle Darry, searching for the father of the babe growing within her.

She walked the halls and yards for what seemed to be hours looking for the boy who was meant to be her guard, going unnoticed for the most part. She had nearly given up hope when she came upon a group of Northmen thoroughly engrossed in their conversation, likely nursing their wounded pride for the dishonor to their liege lord. She was contemplating heading back to her chambers, thinking to pursue him another day, when a rather large and bearded northman moved, revealing a sullen northern bastard heavily in his cups. She stood there for a moment, observing him speaking with a smile on her face until she heard him speak.

"I just wonder how a woman could be so cold?" He said in a slur. "No wonder the King is so fat, having the Queen and her lions hounding him." The men broke into laughter, clanging their cups and patting him on the back.

"Careful boy." A burly man said raising a brow. "Best not let the Queens men hear you. You are her guard?"

Jon snorted at this. "I care not for the lioness, or her concerns." He said as he put out his cup for a servant to refill. "She has already taken everything from me." He took a long swig before continuing. "I gave her everything and all she did was use me. The woman is poison." She felt the air leave her, using her anger to sustain her.

She walked to him with all haste, slapping the cup from his hand and regrettably drawing attention to herself. Jon looked to her with confusion, opening his mouth to speak as he stood from his seat. She grabbed him by his doublet, half-dragging and half-leading him away from the courtyard. She moved through the corridors toward her chambers in great haste, avoiding contact with anyone who might recognize her or ask questions about the drunken child she was dragging through the castle.

Fortunately she made her way to her chambers without incident, her maids having vacated the space long ago. She turned back sharply to Jon who surged forward to kiss her, earning a resounding slap for his troubles. "You're drunk." She said, her voice iron, her face stone. "I don't know what I was thinking, believing you could be any better than any other man!" She shoved him, finding him far easier to move in his current state. "You just take your pleasure thinking it is owed to you because of the cock between your legs!" She shoved him again, this time hard enough to knock him to the bed.

She jumped atop him pounding his chest repeatedly, Jon in no position to defend himself. "Used you? I gave myself to you." She slapped his face. "I endangered my children, risked my life and my honor for you." She cried out gripping his doublet, only then realizing he had fallen asleep in her bed once more. With few choices she pulled him further into the bed as best she could, resting his head on her thighs. She let herself drift into a troubled sleep, her eyes filled with unshed tears thinking about what she stood to lose if any of this came to light.

The next morning she awoke to the shifting of weight in her lap, only then remembering that she had Jon in her bed once more.

"Cersei?" She heard him rasp, his voice hoarse with sleep. She opened her eyes to look down at him, confusion flickering across his face. "What has happened?" He said raising a hand to her cheek wiping a stray tear she had not felt leave her eye.

She moved from beneath him letting his head hit the mattress as she made to get as far as she could from him in this confined space. He stood to follow but she raised a hand. "No!" She screeched. "I will not be your poison any longer." He looked to her with confusion, taking a step only for her to throw a necklace at him. "I heard you!" She yelled, making a concerted effort to give him a very expensive bruise.

He stepped into one of the many baubles thrown, taking the hit directly to the forehead and wrapping her in his embrace. "I was drunk." He soothed, rubbing her back as she sniffles. "This is unlike you my Lioness." She heard him say, while rubbing circles into her back.

She looked into his eyes, deciding to just rip out the arrow. "I found out that I am with child only to find their father speaking ill of me. What was I to do?"

For a moment she thought he had not heard her, his face a daze looking down on her. "What?" He let out in exasperation, an emotion she could not recognize.

She rolled her eyes, grabbing his hand to place on her belly, rubbing it around to note the slight curve. "I'm at least three moons I believe. I tried to tell you last night-"

"I was a drunken fool last night Cersei." He kissed the corner of her mouth, dipping to one knee before kissing her belly. "Where is my dirk?" he asks as he looks around, as if the missing dagger would materialize. She walked over to the wardrobe grabbing his sword belt from inside, walking back across the room to hand it to him. He strapped the belt to himself, and gestured for her hand. "Do you trust me?" He asked her gently, as if trying to remind her of the first leap she took. She eventually took his hand, deciding to give him some measure of hope.

JON

He led her out of the room into the early morn, having her walk in front of him as if he were simply escorting her, acting as her guard. He subtly directed her through the corridors, and into the open yard where it was still dark. They walked slowly to the castle's, Cersei always two steps ahead. As they reached the heart tree, he stood there for a moment thinking about what he was promising, about what he was giving up. He closed his eyes, visions of a babe with brown hair and green eyes floating through his mind. At that moment his decision was made.

He took the dagger from its sheath holding it by the tip with his forefinger and thumb. Still on one knee he grabbed her hand, placing it to the his lips then straightened himself looking serious and solemn.

She rolled her eyes, clearly not liking the direction in which this was heading. "Jon what are you doing? Get up from there."

He looked into her eyes, her lovely green irises shimmering in the dark. "Do you trust me?" She rolled her eyes again, forcing him to amend his words. "Do you trust that I love you, that I would give my life for yours and our child's?"

She huffed clearly not in the mood for this conversation. "I trust that you would protect our unborn child."

He noticed the way she excluded herself from his protection. "And what of yourself? Do you believe I would leave you, cast you aside?"

She smirked harshly, almost as if she meant it to harm him. "And if your father or Robert meant to harm me? What then? Would you fight through the Kingsguard and the Northmen to slay them for my honor?"

With that he turned to the heart tree, laying his hand over the bark, feeling the heavy contrast to the soft skin of moments before. "You know, when a follower of the Old Gods swears an oath to a heart tree, it is as binding as one made in a sept." He held up the dagger once more. "With this dagger I swear myself to you."

"Jon-" she tried but he cut her off, speaking over her.

"I shall protect your person and our child with my life. I shall keep your secrets. I shall share your pains, your burdens." He breathed out a raspy breath, continuing with trepidation. "And if I should ever break my word, let this dirk take my life."

She put a hand to her mouth, muffling the sound of her next words. "Jon you cannot do this, I forbid it."

He simply smiled wryly, standing to his full height and turning toward her fully. "The oath has been given and cannot be taken back." He states as fact, handing her the dagger. "If you would like to end my oath, you may take the dagger and pierce my heart."

Her eyes flash with anger and something akin to fear, she surges forward, dagger in hand. In one moment he is against the tree, it's face digging into his back as the dirk digs into his neck. She looks at him for a long moment, weighing her options and risks. "I will accept your service." She flicks the blade lightly, causing a small nick on his neck. "A reminder of your oath to me." He says as she removes his sheath from his belt, putting away the dagger in the folds of her skirt.

She turns to walk towards the castle. "Where are you going?" He calls to her softly.

Cersei looks over her shoulder. "I must tell my lord husband the wonderful news. I am with child." She tilts her head to the side and giggles. "I may need my guard to walk with me to inform the King."

He steps forward to walk behind her, dabbing the blood that is blooming from his cut, wondering what he gave up to be with her and what it would cost him.


	4. New Beginnings

**THE PUP**

He sat at his place in the Great Hall, seething in silence at the spectacle that his King was currently making.

The welcome feast for the Hand of the King should have been a joyous occasion for Jon, a grand feast, abundant in meat and mead and revelry; unfortunately all he could see was the decadence of the Stag's court. Men pawing at serving wenches drunkenly, their wives close by in addition to the sheer amounts of food and drink being wasted by drunken fools; food that could be given to those less fortunate.

Oh yes, the celebration began joyously with the announcement of the Queen carrying the Robert's supposed child. The merriment was abundant, noble Lords and Ladies and Knights stepped forward, all giving their best wishes to the queen on her carrying of the next prince or princess. King Robert sat back, allowing his lady wife to soak in all of the attention, beaming with something akin to joy. He even went so far as to not grope a single passing serving wench. This all lasted for no more time than it took the King and his ilk to drink their fill, so not very long.

The moment the King had taken his fill of wine he began pawing at the closest serving woman to him, a young girl with brown hair and a full bosom. As if Robert's actions were an incantation, the rest of the court began to follow their King en mass; making bawdy lewd jests, fondling serving girls and being loud and rambunctious in general. As this behavior continued, Jon looked to Cersei to see the resigned look upon her face, though he saw the underlying scorn behind he facade.

With this, Jon could no longer spew his venom into his cup; no, instead he raised from the table starling the Northmen to either side of him. He curtly apologized to both men, before walking to the doors of the Great Hall, turning back to look into the emerald orbs that had been studying his back and smiling.

Though he failed to notice was the second pair of emerald lights shining on him, ones belonging to the Slayer of Kings.

Jon made his way through the corridors of the Red Keep, searching for the passage that would lead to the Royal Apartments, and regretting ignoring the short tour he had taken with the rest of the household.

Jon turned a corner, leading him to what he vaguely recalled was a service entrance to the Royal Wing. Looking around, certain that none had followed him, he slipped into a corner, dropping to the floor and resting his back against the wall. He reached out with his mind, barely tapping the mind of the first creature he encountered inside of the corridor.

* * *

 _The mouse darted up and down the passageway, listening for the rustle and clank of the big creatures, the smells they poured on themselves to mask their musk. He ran by cave after cave, looking for something. But what?_  
 _A smell, like flowers, but not flowers. Like something playing at being flowers: Roses. The mouse ran past the- fourth cave and the fifth, stopping at the sixth to his- left, smelling the not-roses. And just like that-_

* * *

Jon returned to his own body, inhaling with great need, having found himself overwhelmed by this journey.

He had been practicing ever since their camp left the lands around Cerwyn, near the end of the White Knife; at first they had just been dreams, dreams of Ghost. More accurately, they were dreams within Ghost, which Jon was content to ignore until Bran confessed to having the same dreams. Though with, Bran the dreams went much further; he showed Jon how he could slip into the minds of animals, something that was supposed to exist only in the stories of Old Nan. Jon comforted the boy and assured him that he was no monster, going so far as to ask the boy to teach him.

Since that day, the two of them trained at it until about midday, barring unforeseen accidents. Jon had become somewhat efficient at using the skins of animals, though it could not hold for long, but it is good for small things like looking for a Queens rooms without being noticed.

Having assured himself that the passage to the Queen's chambers were clear, Jon slipped through the hallway and into Cersei's room, quietly closing the door behind him. Turning to face the inside of Cersei's chambers, he realized that he had never been in her rooms before; he had been inside her tent and her chambers in other holdfasts and castles, but never in the Queen's Chambers.

Against his better judgement, he began to peruse her belongings. Peaking inside of her wardrobe, he found only the maternity clothing she had likely ordered be brought out for the babe growing in her belly, cutting off underneath her bosom with fabric blooming out to accommodate her girth. Patterns of gold and silver and copper adorned the ascending point bodice, stitched in intricate patterns about the bosom; even heavy with child, none could say she was without taste. He smiled. Jon caressed the fabric reminded of what should be his, feeling shame at his resentment of the King and the fact that another would raise his child. He closes the wardrobe, blinking back his unshed tears as he moved about the room, looking upon perfumes and Rose oils neatly gathered upon a shelf.

So caught in his thoughts he lost track of time, though it must have been late, for he heard the sound of shuffling feet in the corridor and the sound of soft feminine voices. Looking about, searching for a place to hide, his eyes settled on the doors leading to the balcony of Cersei's room. He rushed to the doors, shoving them open and darting outside before closing the doors quietly. His timing was nearly perfect, moving aside just as the doors opened, revealing Cersei's handmaidens.

The women went about their duties as Jon sat waiting, hoping that Cersei would be there soon. The ladies brought steaming water, filling a large tub as others pulled out night clothes to dress her in.

Jon could not remember how long he had waited before he drifted to sleep.

* * *

 _He padded lightly through the strange woods, looking upon his prey as he slowly closed in. The stag cocked its head, looking at him in fear before darting deeper into the woods. He followed._  
 _As he ran, the Wild Sister burst from the woods to join him with the Small Brother not far behind. They chased the horned beast, slowly boxing it in. They moved swiftly fanning out, pushing the beast to where the Small Sister waited. Just a bit further. A little more._  
 _Sharp and quick the Small Sister tore from the brush, snapping at the stag's hind leg and dipping away, avoiding the wild kick. The stag hobbled to get away as Ghost pounced on his neck, blood rushing into his mouth as the stag went down, limp in his jaws._  
 _The Small Brother and Wild Sister stepped forward to take their fill, ripping at the carcass of their prey. Ghost urged the Small Sister forward, a silent gesture to take her share. She is too small, too weak. She will drag the pack down if she is not stronger; for the pack to strive she must-_

* * *

Jon is awoken by a soft hand to his shoulder. He snaps to attention, shaking the hand away until he looks up into the emerald orbs of Cersei Baratheon. "How long have you been out here?" She asks, smiling down on him sadly.

He jumps to his feet, smoothing out his clothing. "Not long I think." He responds, looking within her room, seeing it empty of any others. He steps inside. "I came to see to you Your Grace."

Her smile brightens at this and she giggles. "Have you now?" She asks in a playful tone. "And how will you do that?" She raises a brow, moving toward the bed before sliding onto it, her legs propped on pillows.

He paused at that; how would he tend to her? "I saw how the King was tonight." Cersei grimaced. "We do not have to speak on it if you prefer." He said, looking at her prone form of his Queen, deciding how to continue. "Does it hurt- I mean the babe?"

Cersei looked to him, an inquisitive look upon er face. "It is uncomfortable sometimes. Though it will get worse later on, especially the legs." She yawned out. "Walking around with this extra weight is not very pleasant." She smiles wryly.

"Is there anything I can do to make this better?" He asked looking into her tired green orbs, as he reached out stroking her knee.

She shuddered under his touch. "My legs do ache somewhat. If you could rub them for me that would be wonderful." She said, her tone less weary.

Without question, Jon went about massaging her legs, weary from carrying his child. He continued for much of the evening, taking direction from Cersei from time to time. In the midst of his ministrations, they began to speak about their homes and their hopes and their dreams. Eventually their conversation drifted to the upcoming tourney in honor the Hand of the King.

"He probably hates it." Jon informed her, a rough chuckle leaving his mouth.

Cersei looked at him, a peculiar knit to her brows. "Tourneys are supposed to be fun." She says wistfully. "The pageantry and revelry, the excitement of crowning a victor and the victor crowning his queen." She spoke about it with such wonder.

Jon wanted to say something; anything other than, you would be my Queen of Love and Beauty. "Have you ever been chosen?" He settled for that, though he wanted to know more.

She sighed as his hands moved over her left ankle. "A few times, though always in small tourneys in the Westerlands." She says with a shuddering moan as Jon rubs circles on the skin around her ankle. "My father inspires great respect in the west, making it a taboo to court me." She lets out another moan, pushing him away. "He was saving me for Prince Rhaegar, if King Aerys agreed."

Jon looked into her eyes, holding her attention on him as he moved to grab her hand in his. "You would certainly be my Queen of love and beauty." He places a chaste kiss to her knuckle, then to her palm.

Cersei takes his face in hand, smiling to hold him. "Then the good Ser shall have my favor." She says, reaching out with both hands, gesturing for him to help her up.

Jon carefully raised his Queen from her bed, careful of her belly. She moved through the room to the wardrobe, reaching inside with her back turned to him, searching for something. She turned back to him with a smile on her face, her hands behind her back. "Close your eyes." She insisted and he humored her. Then he felt the soft fabric wrapping around his wrist, weaving around itself several times before Cersei finally tied it on. Her soft finger trailed along his palm as she moved away. "Now open your eyes." She whispers.

Jon looks to his wrist, admiring the green silk wrapped around his forearm, gold embroidery freckled along the creases in the fabric creating a strange and beautiful contrast to his queen. He raises a hand to her face, slow and and tender, stroking her cheek. "Like your eyes?" He caresses her cheekbone, near her ear.

Cersei grabs his hand, bringing it to her lips before laying a chaste kiss there. "You should go." She whispers into his palm. "The Kingsguard is stationed on the door, but you can leave through my solar." She ushers him to the door, dropping his hand as he crosses the threshold and closing the door behind him.

Jon hears her voice through the wall and moments later the sound of a door opening, signaling him to slip through the door of her solar. He hastens through the corridors of the Royal Apartments until he reaches the servants corridors, swiftly descending the steps as he made his way back to the Tower of the Hand. Before each turn, Jon stopped to tap the mind of one of the palace rodents, using them as his temporary eyes. This continued until he came across a strange sensation, his mind reaching out to a cat only to be rebuffed by a presence already ingrained in its mind.

The presence was small and scared, though it held a certain amount of aggression, though toward whom or what he knew not. He turned the corner to see a haggard black cat staring at him, compelled him to move foward as the it mimicked his motions; when Jon took a step the cat followed, putting the same paw forward to mirror his actions, he tilted his head in sync with the cat. They eyed one another cautiously for a moment, before the cat simply turned its head and stalked away into the darkness, leaving Jon to contemplate the strange encounter as he walked towards his quarters in the tower. He passes the guards stationed at the entrance of the tower, breathless and tired, making his excuses as best he could. Fortunately they allowed him to pass without much questioning, leaving him to slip into the tower silent as the night.

After hiking the stairs two-by-two, he slips into his quarters, darkness engulfing his world. He fumbles with his doublet in the darkened room, not noticing the presence of Tully- blue eyes within his space.

"Jon." A voice whispers from the void, causing him to reach for his dirk. He stops when he turns to see a frightened Bran, sitting upon his bed.

Jon stays his hand, moving closer to his little brother. "Brandon Stark!" He hisses, his voice hoarse with surprise. He notes the apprehension in Bran's eyes, calming himself before continuing. "What are you doing here so late?"Bran looked to him, eyeing his elder brother nervously. "I saw something while I was-" he did not have to finish. Jon knew he was within an animal, looking through their eyes.

"What did you see Bran?" He prompted gently, trying to provide an air security and trust for the boy. "You can tell me brother."

Brandon chewed on his lip, his brows scrunched. "I saw you tonight." He said, jarring Jon from sense of security. "I was looking through a bird outside the Queen's Chamber. I didn't mean to I swear, but I saw you there-" Bran paused, shifting on the bed. "With the Queen?" His tone was questioning, as though he were not sure.

Jon scrambled for an explanation, anything that could be seen as reasonable purpose for his visit. His mind settled on a long shot which was not too far from the truth. "I was there begging her favor." He said, the lies flowing from him like water. "I sought her as a sponsor for the upcoming tourney. Her Grace complained of pain in her legs, so I helped her ease the ache."

Bran looked at him for a moment, contemplation plain on his face. After a long pause, Bran seemed to accept his words. "Alright." He grumbled under his voice, shifting to the edge of Jon's bed before hopping off. He began to move towards the door until Jon reached a hand out to grasp him.

"I will need your help in the tourney brother." He said, gripping Brandon by the shoulders. "I shall ask Ser Barristan to lend me a set of armor, though I will need a squire." He raised a brow suggestively.

Bran looked upon him in shock. "You mean for me to squire for you?" He asks, his brows nearly reaching his hair. "In the joust?"

Jon smiled broadly, his lies of Cersei forgotten by the small boy. "Of course, though it must be a secret." He puts a finger to his lips, adding emphasis to his words. "Father would skin us both and make us into soft fuzzy cloaks!" He tickles The boy, making him laugh. "Now run along. We have a long day tomorrow with Ser Barristan."

Bran nodded, the smile still tugging at his lips as he dipped through the doorframe and into the night.

Jon continued to unlace his clothing, preparing for bed.

When he was finally bare, he climbed into his bed without preamble, tossing the sheets aside to absorb the warm night air. As he lie on the featherbed, thinking of the events of the evening, his hand subconsciously traveled to the scar at his neck. "My Queen of Love and Beauty." He sighed into the otherwise empty room.

The events of this very night would set the tone for the rest of his stay in King's Landing. Starting with the tourney.


	5. The Fall

**THE LIONESS**

Nearly a sennight has passed since she returned to King's Landing; six days that she and Jaime spent tiptoeing around one another.

Even as he stood watch over her at this very moment, no words were spoken between them other than what was absolutely necessary; as he stood guard over her, looking around for possible threats, his eyes scarcely moved to her and when they did, they never dipped below her neck. She found it foolish; it was as if he thought ignoring her swollen belly would erase the child growing within her.

This could not continue, lest someone suspect things better left in the dark. "How long do you intend to punish me dearest brother?" She inquired, her voice soft and smooth and low. She waited for a moment hoping her brother would respond, hoping this conversation would go further and better than her other attempts. Unfortunately, Jaime seemed intent on fostering the foul mood, choosing to stay silent. "It was bound to happen at some point, Jaime." She put a hand to her belly, stroking the babe that her brother so pointedly ignored. "For all that he is not, Robert is still my husband."

At that, Jaime turned to glare at her, unfettered fury blooming across his face. "And when did that start to matter?" He exploded, his voice blooming throughout the garden. Fortunately the garden was presently devoid of prying eyes, though it is no excuse for recklessness.

Cersei shifted her arms closer around her belly, finding Jaime's tone alarming. "Since you left me alone with him for near six moons."

Clearly her words jarred him, for he moved swiftly as years of training had taught him. He gripped the arms of her chair, his knuckles blanched from the force. "I was forced to stay, or has that fact slipped your mind sweet sister?" Jaime spat back at her. "You know as well as I that Robert has not forced you into his bed for years. He has three legitimate children from you, he needs nothing else from this marriage." Having realized the uncomfortably close proximity to his sister, he moved away slightly. "No. No, if you shared his bed, then it was because you wanted it." He hissed, the rage bubbling over despite his best efforts.

The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms looked to her brother, a knight of the Kingsguard and protector of the Royal Family, with palpable fear. "Is that so hard to believe brother."

Faster than Cersei could cry out, Jaime lifts a mailed fist roaring like the golden lion clasping his cloak, spittle flying from his mouth. He held his fist aloft, a mere breath away from her face. "I betrayed the greatest men I have ever known, for you." He growled, his rage seeping between his teeth. "I set aside my honor, for you." For her entire life, Jaime had been her knight of songs; when she became queen he was her white knight and her personal guard. Cersei found it difficult to reconcile this image with the one before her; a valiant white knight versus the this beast of a man before her.

Would Jaime truly strike her? He never had before, though she had never hurt him in such a way.

"Ser Jaime?" A voice calls out from behind her brother.

Cersei looks under his shoulder, getting a better vantage of the interloper only to see grey hair, forming a long solemn face, holding two familiar grey pools like liquid steel. Her heart drops at that; this is not the time for chivalry, but before she can say that he speaks again. "Ser Barristan has requested you presence." He says moving closer to the pair. "I was instructed to find you, then take up your post guarding the queen." He takes another step, clearly taking note of the anger within Jaime.

"And what does Ser Barristan want with me?" He asks, scorn and loathing dripping from his lips.

"The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard-" he pauses momentarily to remind Jaime that he has no choice. "Did not see fit to grace me with that information. I am just a messenger." He says, stepping within arms reach of the pair.

Jaime's eyes burn with pure hatred, and she is uncertain of whether that is for her or Jon. "And what a fine messenger you are; the bastard son of the Hand, squire to Ser Barristan the Old-" Jaime is cut short by Jon's interruption.

"Ser Barristan the Old, as you call him, is one of the greatest Knights in the history of the Seven Kingdoms. Greater than a knight whose loyalties sway with the wind, who would dare-" Jon's lecture is cut-short by mailed fists reaching out to grip his doublet. Jaime stared into the face of the boy with pure loathing, seemingly trying to run him through with his eyes. When this strategy did not work, he thrust Jon against one of the posts of her canopy.

For all of the trouble Jon has found, he seems if anything somewhat reigned bored with the situation. She finds his calm somewhat unnerving as he puts an arm out, gesturing the way he came. She follows this line of sight, noticing a wisp of dark grey around the corner. She does not have much time to focus on this, as Jaime slams him against the post once more, whether to get a reaction from Jon or to hurt him she knows not. Cersei begins to rise in an attempt to stop this madness, only for Jon to put a hand out to her, keeping her in place. Even when he is facing death, he is worried for my safety, she thinks to herself. _The chivalrous fool_.

With that, Jon cocks his head to the side, forcing Cersei's line of sight in that direction. She finds herself alarmed by what she sees coming toward the pair of men; a rather large hawk, making no sound other than the beating of its wings. Her attention moves back to Jon, intent on warning him, but when she lays eyes on him he is shifting away from her brother, moving as far as Jaime's iron grip will allow him.

She knew not what Jaime saw, though she assumed it was fear or opportunity, for he removed one hand from Jon's doublet, pulling it back in preparation for a strike. Cersei feels her heart quicken. "Stop this foolishness!"

With speed and grace that she has yet to see in him, Jon grips the arm still attached to his doublet, pulling Jaime off balance with both hands before placing a kick to his shin. Before Jaime can regain his his composure, his face is met by the falcon from earlier, squawking and pecking at his golden hair, driving him into a frenzy. He swats at the bird of prey viciously, fighting for his freedom to no avail.

As though the gods had decided that the situation were not strange enough, a dark blur emerges from the bushes to join in attacking Jaime, moving and clawing around his legs, finding the small chinks in his armor.

This continues for some time, Jon shifting closer to her and observing her brothers duel with the winged menace and the ball of fur. There is a look on his face that she cannot place, though it seems akin to boredom or disappointment. "We should stop this." He says, moving forward to dispatch the bird first, picking a twig from the ground and smacking the creature. He then turns to the cat. "Stop that, you." The little beast ceases its attack, moving to Jon and brushing against his leg before darting into another bush.

He then looks to Jaime with a weak smile. "That was quite the feat. I've never known a hawk to become that aggressive without provocation." He puts out a hand for the golden fool. Jaime seems to contemplate the meaning of the gesture for a moment, before grasping the offered hand.

"A lesson for the future boy; even the Kingsguard can look the fool from time to time." He say with a forced smile, patting Jon on the shoulder. "Apologies for the rude introduction, I lost my temper for a moment. Siblings can do that to you." He looks to Cersei, his gaze beaming with hidden meaning. He pauses for a moment, staring her down. "Anyway, I should go and see what the Lord Commander wants." He bows to her and ruffles Jon's dark locks, a purposefully condescending gesture, before departing from the garden. She watches his back as he moves closer to the castle, never turning back to look at her.

When she can no longer see him, she lets out a sigh of relief, finally looking over to Jon. His face is full of unasked questions. "Don't." She says, preempting the onslaught of tough inquiries she would rather not face.

Jon merely looks into her eyes, nodding his understanding. "I swore to keep your secrets." He says in a low voice, hoarse with something she cannot understand. "I take my oaths seriously." With that, he extends an arm, beckoning her to take the offered limb. After only a moments hesitation, Cersei takes the offered limb, holding on to steady herself as she is unsure on her feet.

As they walk, she grips his arm tighter, calling his attention to her. "You should be more careful Jon." She admonishes, pulling him to look into her eyes. "Luck will not always be on your-"

She is cut off by the swift shuffling of small feet. She looks up to see the youngest Stark of the bunch, Brandon. "You hit me! I can't believe-" the boy barely has time to speak, as Jon moved away from her clamping a hand over his mouth swiftly. The boy looks to Jon, then to her and a silent understanding passes between the two, Brandon nodding his head.

Jon moves away from the boy, bracing his body back against his queen's. Bran dips into a clumsy bow, before standing to his full height and shifting forward on his toes. "Your Grace." He says, puffing his chest out to her.

"Hello again Brandon." She says with a smile, taking the boy in. "Were you to deliver the message as well?" She asks, merely making polite conversation.

The boy scrunches his face in a confused manner, looking to Jon for an answer. "I had to say something, did I not?" She looks to Jon, noting the guilty look on his face. "I panicked and I needed a reason for Ser Jaime to leave." He said, guilt and nervousness laced in his voice.

"So Ser Barristan did not want Jaime then?" She said, slight confusion in her voice. Jon shook his head, looking to the ground. He was so convincing, she thought to herself. And it is not too strange for a knight to send his squire on menial errands.

Caught in her thoughts, she did not notice that they had reached her chambers.

Jon stepped back, dipping into a deep bow. "I believe we have reached our destination my queen." He says, his voice a purposely low growl, foretelling events to come. "Unfortunately we have business to attend to."

Brandon jumps at this. "We have to train for the-" The hand goes back over his mouth as Jon looks into his brother's eyes, shaking his head. Brandon nods, prompting Jon to let him go and stand.

Brandon dips beside his brother, straightening himself as they hurry away, leaving Cersei to contemplate the meaning of all the strange things she had heard and seen.

* * *

After the shock of her morning, the rest of her day seemed to be somewhat restrained. She spent most of her time speaking with the ladies of court, a sewing circle of simpletons as far as she is concerned; stupid women, talking about stupid things of little consequence to anyone. Growing tired of the conversation in the boring circle of women, Cersei retires to her rooms for a break, resting before she dines with her children.

Dining with her children is a more bearable activity, Tommen telling stories of his adventures with Brandon Stark and his bastard brother under Ser Barristan's supervision. Myrcella spoke of a new book she had begun to read, given to her by the beastly little Stark girl. Joffrey did not speak, but to admonish his siblings for even speaking to the more uncultured northerners.

They spoke on little else of substance, though she did learn that Jon had taken to training Tommen with the sword, though she would have words with him about that later.

* * *

With her children off to their respective evening preparations, Cersei walks the short distance to her chambers, hearing the bustle of her ladies more clearly as she approaches. She sweeps into her bedchamber, her handmaidens descending upon her instantly: undoing laces, pouring water and taking down her hair. Cersei allows them to go about their chores, drifting into a somewhat tranquil state as she prepares for her evening entertainment. When her clothing is off and her hair is completely loose across her shoulders and the tops of her breasts, she slips into the tub that has been filled for her, allowing the scent of blue winter rose oil to seep into her skin. She runs her hands through her hair and over her skin, assuring that the essence of the oils permeate her pores.

After a sufficient amount of bathing, she rises from the tub to be patted dry by her handmaidens. She then moves to the center of the room, allowing herself to be adorned in a sheer gown of thin peach silk, before dismissing her servants with an acknowledgement of their services.

She waddles to the bed, turning back the sheets to slip into her back, propping her feet against pillows left at the foot of the bed. _Someone is trying to impress me_ , she thought to herself. Though all of her thoughts fall away as she hears the clumsy shuffle of boots outside of her door. _Is he trying to wake the whole bloody castle_ , she admonishes quietly as the door opens, revealing hair of beaten gold.

She barely has time to think before the rest of Jaime's wobbling form stumbles through her door, nearly crashing to the floor in his white enameled armor, sure to wake the whole wing. "Jaime?" She whispers harshly, drawing the attention of his clouded eyes, drunken idiot. "What in the hells are you doing here? You're not even on rotation this evening!" She whispers, her voice climbing higher with each syllable.

He stumbles to her bed, the smell of wine preceding him as he trips on the corner, his face falling to Cersei's outer thigh as her slumps to the featherbed. "Sweet sister!" He nearly shouts lifting his face from her flesh. She puts a hand to his mouth, calming him somewhat as he nods his understanding. His next words are a whisper. "I have come-to say-that I-forgive you!" He says, pausing every other word, running his his fingers up her flesh, before crawling up her body.

"Jaime you're drunk." Her tone like iron, she makes to push him away but he is steadfast and powerful, even in his intoxication. She groaned under his weight.

Jaime either didn't realize her discomfort or didn't care. "I need you sister." He slurred, sliding his hands down her sides, slipping her gown up her body long with her nightshift. "I've been so long without you." He licked at her lips sloppily.

Cersei was in a full panic, shoving against his chest, trying to stop his body from crushing her unborn babe. "Jaime!" She whined out, her mind barely registering the strange presence in the room. "Jaime, you can't-"

Suddenly the weight was gone. She looked about the room, her eyes landing on dark figure standing above Jaime his body heaving. Her panic increased rapidly as she looked down to the limp form of her brother at the feet of her lover.

Suddenly her entire life flashed before her eyes; more accurately, it was their life, hers and Jaime's. Running around the rock, getting into all sorts of mischief. Summer trips to Lannisport, the evenings spent looking out over the Sunset Sea, imagining what was beyond the horizon. She thought of the first time he had taken her, how they fit perfectly together. And now he was gone.

As she sat in her bed, she could only stare between her brother and Jon as the tears fell. She began to sob softly as she inched closer to the foot of the mattress, closer to Jaime. She could vaguely hear the soft tones of Jon calling her name, moving closer with each cry. She could feel the ghost of a hand coming to her shoulder as she slipped to the floor, clutching Jaime to her belly.

"Cersei." Jaime whispers lazily into her middle.

She swiftly pulls him away, examining his body and the floor around him, noting the distinct lack of blood on any surface. She grips him by the face, looking down on his dazed form, turning his head to notice the reddening flesh on his jaw near his right ear. She locks eyes with Jon, crouched over her shoulder, with a sheepish look on his face.

"What did you do?" She inquires, keeping the humor out of her voice, leaving only authority.

To his credit, Jon looked thoroughly ashamed of his actions. "I hit him in the ear." He said, suddenly finding his boots very interesting. "Robb did it to me once or twice." He shrugs like the boy of five and ten he is. "Could barely stand after, let alone fight. I thought it might work on him." He phrased the last bit as more of a question.

At his admission, she could barely stifle the laughter building in her throat, allowing it to slip free in small bursts until it tumbled from her body. Jon merely stood there above her, a quizzical look on his face. She fought down her laughter enough to speak in a somewhat coherent manner. "Fate is a strange thing, is all." The look on Jon's face showed his confusion had increased if at all possible. She sighed in exasperation. "Never you mind. Help your queen to her feet." She raised her arms as Jon moved to stand behind her, wrapping his arms about her now bulbous frame, his cheek brushing hers as he lifted her to the bed and deposited her beneath the sheets.

He made to move away, when something in her force a hand to his tunic. He looked down to her, his eyes soft and tender as he gripped her hand in both of his. "Will that be all Your Grace?" He whispered in a husky rasp.

She released his tunic, her hand retreating to the rest of her person, only for Jon to hold it aloft placing a soft kiss to her palm. He then moves forward to kiss her forehead. "Good night My Queen." He says, making to depart until Cersei grips the back of his neck, pulling his face down upon hers. Her meaning is not lost on him as he traps her mouth in a deep kiss, moving his lips against hers with practiced efficiency. He slips his tongue into her mouth and passed her teeth, coaxing her own small muscle out of hiding. He is getting too good at this, she thinks to herself as Jon lays her down flat, moving atop her carefully as to not crush their babe.

Her thoughts are broken as she feels him stiffening against her thigh. Before she can voice her acknowledgement, he moves away as swiftly as he came. He stands there for a moment looking at the door, then to Jaime, then to her. "Would that I could attend you this evening, my love." He says, stepping back into a grandiose bow. "But I do have a knight to carry and a household guard and a Kingsguard to avoid." With that, he stepped over to the Jaime, lifting him from behind to bring, armor and all. He then proceeded to drag him off into the night. "Sleep well." He rasped under the weight of the fallen knight, as a final farewell.

With his departure, Cersei's body suddenly seemed to remember how tired it was, dragging her into a troubled sleep. Though she would never tell anyone, lest they think her mad, her dreams took her to soaring heights, clouds above the seven heavens and over waters of crystal blue. She saw visions of fire and ice; of blood and earth.

 _Of dragons and wolves._


	6. Lost One

**THE PUP**

The sun is just beginning to rise overhead as he takes his seat against the wall, exhausted from the morning's drills. They had started long before the sun rose in the sky, training fiercely in an attempt to make him ready for the Hand's Tourney. Each morning, Jon and Ser Barristan, and Bran and Tommen from time to time, would wake long before the rest of the castle, taking to the yard to practice.

When first he had asked, or begged, depending on who was rebelling the tale, he expected the man to refuse in no uncertain terms. To his immense surprise and satisfaction, the aged knight agreed, only after asking Jon nearly a dozen times if he was certain; nearly a dozen times, Jon affirmed his wishes with glee, not knowing what he truly bargained for.

This time each morning saw him with new bruises, his body exhausted and hungry, and worst of all his lance arm was numb with use. After the first day, Ser Barristan began to add extra weight behind the shield in the quintain, considering it as good practice.

 _'You are a boy of four and ten, slight of build and inexperienced.'_ He had said. _'This will provide you with some semblance of a true hit.'_

Each morning he would start with a few harsh spars with the aged knight, as Ser Barristan had deemed him more than adequate with the sword, especially for a boy of his age. The rest of the morning was spent practicing with a lance, Ser Barristan teaching him more advanced techniques each day.

"How does your arm fair, boy?" The knight asked, genuine concern in his voice as he handed him a skin of water.

Jon nodded, taking the skin and drinking it with reverence, nearly draining it in its entirety, only stopping when Ser Barristan ripped it from his hands.

"Easy son!" He said, smiling as he mussed Jon's hair playfully. "You will find water is in great supply north of the Dornish Marches." He said, looking over his shoulder at the sound of wood clashing in the yard.

Bran stood victorious, sword pointed at the prone form of Prince Tommen for only a second. A moment later, Tommen extended his arm skyward, chest heaving as sweat stained his underarms. Bran gripped him by the wrist, hauling him bodily from the dirt, squaring off for another round as they clash once more.

Jon chuckled lightly, watching as the two boys formlessly battered one another, like farmhands. "Their form is awful!" He said, looking to the aged knight and noticing his lingering stare.

Ser Barristan's eyes cleared almost immediately, as he turned to assess the boys once more, a smile crinkling at the corners of his eyes. "What they lack in skill, they more than match in ferocity." He said, the laughter clear in his tone. "They would make wonderful butchers!" He said, causing both of them to burst into raucous laughter. As the jovial sounds began to ebb, Jon noticed the Lord Commander slipping into his trance once more, a sort of despondent longing etched on his face.

"Did you wish to ask something of me, Ser?" He asked, more out of concern than curiosity. Since the first day they had met, the Ser seemed prone to staring into space for long periods of time, a melancholy look etched across his face. Only recently had Jon realized that this only occurred near him, for the knight never seemed to slip while on his duty or with others.

Ser Barristan did not respond, preferring to smile and muss Jon's hair once more, filling him with a strange paternal warmth. He fought back the feeling, determined to not be moved on this. "Your stare does not bear the intensity it used to, but it is still strange Ser?" He led, waiting for the knight to follow. "Almost like a father, or a grandfather stares at his family." He continued.

Selmy took a few moments, opening and closing his mouth several times, before finally responding. "Why do you struggle so much to win this tourney?" He asked, deflecting the question. "I mean to say, who is all of this effort for?" He continued.

 _Not a complete lie_ , Jon thought, trying to create a story of his own, preferring partial fiction to the truth. "I began training to win the favor of a noble lady." He said, sighing into the gap left by his pause. "Though she is currently wed to another." _Neither of those are technically lies_ , he justified. "So I mean to crown Queen Cersei, in honor of her child." He said with a ghost of a smile. The last was only half a lie, though it could be true, given that the babe is his.

Ser Barristan sighed, holding a pained smile to himself. "I knew a man much like yourself." He began. "Young, strong, the son of a man with great power." He said, sighing out his next word. "And like yourself, he too fought hard to win a grand tourney, all for the favor of a fair lady who belonged to another." He paused, grinding his teeth as he blinked back tears. "If he could have gleaned the future-" Ser Barristan choked on his words, offering Jon a weak smile. "Life is not always a song." He said, in summation.

He wanted to ask the Ser what he meant, though any words he had were cut off by the presence of Tommen and Bran, looking upon them like lost sheep.

Ser Barristan sighed, helping Jon from the ground. "So, Brandon will partner with me." He said, pushing Tommen in his direction. "You shall handle his training, today." Ser Barristan gave a knowing smile, rounding on Bran as he began to instruct.

Jon sparred with Tommen for the rest of their time in the yard, giving instruction when necessary, and praise when due.

He was beginning to see improvement in the young boy, though the road to becoming a warrior would be long and arduous indeed. "Enough for the day." Ser Barristan declared, looking on the sorry state of their two unofficial squires. "We shall resume on the morrow." He said, coming to stand before Jon, leaning in closely. "I want you to rest for the next few days. Let your bruises and aches heal before the Tourney." He mussed his hair once more, before heading off with Prince Tommen, likely taking him to Cersei.

Bran grabbed Jon by the wrist, dragging him hurriedly into the Tower of the Hand, bursting into small hall startling all in attendance. After breaking his fast with Bran and Arya, who materialized sometime during his meal, looking disheveled and tattered, he returned to his rooms to find some peace of mind.

Jon floated into his rather large featherbed, attempting to rest his body after a hard day of training. Finding sleep to be less attainable than he first imagined, he rises from bed, slowly ambling to his wardrobe. He begins methodically to shift his clothing, picking up his meticulously folded garments, searching for the green length of silk which represented his Queen' favor.

Panic begins to set in, whipping his chest into a frenzy as he searches for the gift Cersei had given him as a keepsake. He hastily begins to unfold his clothing, throwing his second garment to the ground, hearing a harsh purr behind him as he runs a hand through his thick dark mane.

Turning from the wardrobe, it takes him a moment to notice the small figure in the doorway, rustling a small length of cloth with gold embroidery, colored the same tint as Cersei's own emerald eyes.

Calmly and quietly, Jon began to address the cat. "That does not belong to you." He said, reaching out with his mind in an attempt to control the feral beast. Upon contact with the cat, something inside it began to war with the intruding boy, scratching and clawing at him until he was forced to depart, almost dropping to his knees.

The cat merely walked away, the silk clutched in its jaw, as though nothing had just happened. I suppose if you're the animal, nothing really does happen, he thought, we just steal your body and you are forced into obscurity. Unable to think of a suitable alternative, Jon began to follow the cat through the tower. He took a turn, heading down a flight of stairs, then through a stone door of some kind, his surroundings not entirely registering to him as he passed through the archway. He slid through a narrow corridor, coming to a stop at the base of a ladder, looking up to the cat on the very top landing.

He began his climb, periodically hearing small sounds like Jeyne Poole and Sansa chattering incessantly about the Golden Prince and his beautiful and gallant nature, the incident where he attacked their baby sister all but forgotten. He pushed that thought away as he trudged upward, leaving the little girls to talk about silly things.

He looked upward once more, seeing the damnable black cat pawing at the silk, likely creating tears in the fabric and ripping up the stitching. "Give it back!" He hissed through the open cavern, mindful that he was currently trapped in the wall next to someone's rooms.

He hauled himself upon the raised platform, snatching his property from the thieving feline, glaring daggers at the small creature, and being pointedly ignored for his troubles. He moved forward, intent on tossing the cat into the shaft below him, stopping as he recognized the sound of voices behind a stone slab in the wall. He moved to press his ear on the cool stone, getting a better vantage to listen in.

"-never speak of this again in my presence Ser!" He heard his father whisper, only catching the last bit. He did not have to wait long for the aforementioned Ser to make himself known.

"So you mean to continue this farce of him being your bastard until-" Ser Barristan began, though he was cut off by father's voice, ringing loudly through the walls.

"I said enough!" He shouted. "I am following his mother's wishes." He said, and Jon could hear the sound of wood scraping on stone.

"Then why bring him to this place?" Ser Barristan paused. "This place where his brother died. Where his sister died." He said, sadness clear in his voice, even behind a slab of solid stone.

Father groaned audibly. "Because Queen Cersei insisted and Robert did not fight it. And I could see no feasible reason to prevent my landless bastard from squiring for Ser Barristan the Bold."

"My lord, I only wished to tell you this for the boy's sake." He said, pausing once more. "I can see it because I know what to look for, and so might others." His voice had changed, moving closer to him. "Like the Kingslayer, or any other who knew Rhaegar and would wish to gain favor with his killer."

"And what do you wish to gain from this knowledge Ser?" His father said, his Lord's Voice coming forward, as if preparing himself for an execution.

Ser Barristan was silent for a long while, and Jon began to hear a loud shuffling from behind the stones slab. Fear rose in his chest, believing he would be discovered, until Ser Barristan finally spoke. "I wish to protect what my prince left behind." He paused, the rustling ringing more softly than before. "I wish to protect his only living son."

Jon found himself feeling lightheaded, though he could not tear himself away, wanting to hear them say it. He needed that confirmation.

Of course it was not meant to be.

Before more could be said, the damnable cat screeched loudly, silencing the room on the other side of the wall. In an instant, Jon heard the audible silence extend, no words being said between the two men on the other side.

In a panic, Jon stuffed the scarf into his doublet, flying down the rungs of the ladder, two at a time.

The shock of hitting the ground was not enough to shake him from his daze, as he looked back toward the entrance he had taken. _Back toward father and Ser Barristan_ , he thought, _back toward the false knight and my not-father_. He ambled down one of the many other tunnels, aimlessly limping after his hasty descent from the small crawl space.

He had not heard everything, he knew; though what he had heard was enough to hazard a guess. Eddard Stark only ever claimed one bastard, and even if he had another, how would Ser Barristan know of them. His mind rumbled with possibilities and theories; he searched for anything that could explain what he had heard, that could make sense of the hole in his heart.

The further he walked, the more he observed: peeking through grates near the floors, listening through walls and small slabs of stone, acting as doors throughout the Red Keep. It took him a moment to fully realize what he had stumbled upon, but by that point, he found himself hopelessly lost in the maze beneath the castle.

Not that he particularly cared. It was actually liberating to be lost, and it left his mind to wander away from troubling thoughts.

So focused on the new treasure he had found, he scarcely registered the faint light moving closer to him in the darkened tunnel, though the soft padding of feet did no favors to his pursuer.

He turned abruptly, reaching for a sword that was not present at his hip. Damn. He moved a hand to his other side, nearly forgetting that he had never replaced his dirk. Double damn. He dropped his center of gravity, waiting for the interloper to attack. "Why are you following me?" He said, speaking into the torch that the stranger held, his face obscured by the bright light in the dark tunnel.

There was a small, feminine giggle, as a face began to form from the shadows, paunchy and rounded and lacking of hair. His massive body emerged as well, rounded to match his head.

The man smiled, an almost predatory gesture, taking a step forward. "You seem lost young man. Might I help you find your way home?"


	7. Let the Games Begin

**THE LIONESS**

Looking out over the competitors from her perch on the Royal Dais, Cersei could scarcely quell the unease within he belly.

As Robert delivered his commencement address, welcoming the noble's in attendance and commending the participants for their bravery, promising gold and glory for the victors, Cersei and her children merely sat and observed their King. While Tommen seemed positively delighted with the spectacle, Myrcella seemed somewhat inattentive, staring into the crowd in search of something. In contradiction to either of his siblings, Joffrey sat still and regal, observing his father and King with a focus lacked by either of his siblings.

The address was purely ceremonial, the true tourney beginning in earnest on the morrow, with multitudes of knights and free-riders eager to honor the Hand of the King, and by extension, the King himself. Taking stock of the dozens of mounted, armored men, her mind began to swim, unable to focus on a singular figure. For the most part, each knight was spectacularly armored, sparing no expense in their pursuit of winning the day and befriending the new Hand, who seemed less thrilled than any with the arrangement, taking offense at the epithet given to the tournament, The Hand's tourney.

Cersei could only imagine Lord Stark's expression as she looked over the sea of gilded men, their armor far too burnished and lustrous to be practical. Thus far, she had made out nearly a dozen houses, including House Massey of Stonedance, and the bronze field and runes of House Royce of Runestone, in addition to nearly a dozen renditions of the twin towers of House Frey, dotting up and down the line of champions. Glancing over the assemble mass of clashing sigils and blazons, Cersei's stomach began to rebel, forcing her to look elsewhere.

Quickly, Cersei looked to Myrcella, who's focus was still engaged by something nearby. Cersei shifted her gaze, attempting to capture the same image that seemed to captivate her sweet girl. Following her line of sight, Cersei's eyes migrate to the area where Lord Eddard sits, accompanied by the elder Stark girl, a septa and some other plain looking girl of an age with Lady Sansa. Missing were the young Stark boy and Jon, as well as the smaller, wilder Stark girl, though that was no true loss.

Though it seemed odd that Brandon Stark was not with his father, it was nothing to lose focus over. Her eyes shifted back to Myrcella, noting the inquisitive, and somewhat disappointed look gracing her face as she scanned the crowd near the Stark's place of honor. Cersei's curiosity was beginning to get the better of her, her eyes still locked on her daughter.

"Is there something wrong, my sweet?" Cersei inquires, startling the girl, nearly causing her to topple from her seat. She graced the smaller Lannister girl with a knowing smile, which Myrcella returned sheepishly, turning her head to look her mother in the eyes.

"I-" the child began, averting her gaze nervously, her soft hands thumbing the seams of her dress. "I thought that Lord Stark might bring his son with him to the tourney, since he is squiring for Ser Barristan?" The girl finally said, a row of teeth biting down into her lower lip, darkening its hue, slightly.

This inquiry to Cersei by surprise, as her daughter had shown little interest in young Brandon, at least to her knowledge. If anything, it would be more characteristic for Tommen to concern himself with the younger Stark's whereabouts, as the two had become attached at the hip, following Jon Snow and Ser Barristan wherever they went.

More for her daughter's sake than to satiate her own curiosity, Cersei scanned the crowded Noble's Stand to either side of their dais, making a show of searching low and high. Once she felt that she had wasted a sufficient amount of time, she turned back to her daughter, an expression of contrition. "I'm sorry, sweet girl." She said, partially meaning what she said. "I cannot see Brandon anywhere." Cersei admitted. "He is likely somewhere with his bastard brother."

A look of confusion passed over Myrcella's face, departing just as quickly as it had appeared, leaving an indecipherable expression in its wake. "Yes." She said, faintly. "With his elder, of course." Myrcella whispered into her lap, her word barely audible.

For a long moment, Cersei merely stared into her daughter's golden crown, wondering what she could possibly want with Brandon Stark. Perhaps she fancied the boy; despite his age, the boy seemed to take his looks from his mother, and would likely grow to look like his elder brother, Robb. Though at this age, Brandon was little more than toddler, and Myrcella had yet to reach ten name days, making the idea of any infatuation a stretch by anyone's imagination.

Abruptly, Myrcella's head snapped upward, startling Cersei from her thoughts as the younger blonde eyed Tommen, sitting in the compartment with the rest of his family as Robert's commencement address came to a close. "Tommen probably knows where they are." Myrcella said, mirroring her mother's thoughts, her voice laced with accusation.

She followed her daughters gaze, looking to her youngest child. No longer, she thought, rubbing her belly, making sure the babe was still within. From time to time, she had to remind herself that she was once more with child, as if the babe were some lucid dream and her dalliance with Jon Snow were a mere fantasy.

Silently slipping from such thoughts, Cersei focused her attention on Tommen, who seemed to be trying very hard, not to look like the cat that ate the mouse. His eyes immediately moved from mother to daughter, flickering to Ser Barristan for just a moment, before guiltily darting into his lap.

Cersei looked to the aging Lord Commander, following his gaze to the assembled knights below. In his field of view, Jaime sat a horse in his gilded, golden armor, his posture straight and noble, his face as dashing as ever, with nary a blemish. To either side of him sat a member of the Kings, sitting tall and proud in their white enameled armor, their white cloaks flowing over the backs of their mounts, marking them as the Royal Family's sworn shields. To either side, the noble Warriors were flanked by the lowest of the low. To one side sat a Frey, bearing the sigil of his house proudly across the face of his shield and dented breast plate, his weasel face showing through his dented, dull great helm. To the other side sat a knight bearing no sigil at all, his frame was small and dull; even from a distance, Cersei could tell that his armor was hastily assemble, hailing from several different sets, as each piece was a slightly different color and did not fit together so well. Judging from his size and armor alone, she deduced that this pretender knight would not go far in this tourney, soon to be swallowed up by the more qualified warriors around him.

Her eyes shifted back to Ser Barristan, now standing to the other side of Robert, her husband back in his seat after giving his speech in honor of the games. Though she could not see his eyes, his posture sang an interesting song for her. While his right gauntlet stayed steadfast on the pommel of his sword, steady as faith, his left gauntlet seemed to shake, ever-so-slightly.

The field below began to clear, the ceremonial opening having come to an end for the time being. Beneath them, a sea of bronze and steel and gold and iron began to shift, creating a moving painting with the sigils of dozens of families, churning the stomach of the Queen of Seven Kingdoms. It did not help matters that Robert smelled of wine, though to a lesser extent than usual, denoting his effort to make her pregnancy less strenuous.

A strange pressure on the back of her hand alerted her to the presence of Robert once more. "Are you unwell Cersei?" He asked, almost sounding like a caring husband. His face was full of concern, though deep down she knew he only cared for the babe in her belly.

She nodded slightly, resisting the urge to snatch her hand away. "I'm fine." She lied. "It's just- all of-" she waved her hands through the air, gesturing to the tourney grounds, swallowing her bile. "This." She finished, speaking into her hand.

For a long moment, Robert sat in silence, seemingly weighing the options before him. "I will have Se Barristan escort you and your litter back to the Red Keep." He said, decisively. "None of the Kingsguard will be competing today; mostly hedge knights and free riders." He continued, as if putting her mind to rest. "Either way, this heat cannot be good for the babe?" He finished, shifting his hand to her belly, causing her heart to quicken.

If he knew whose babe was in her belly, he would surely crush it underfoot without hesitation.

Pushing away the thought, she nodded, extending her hand to Ser Barristan, who had moved closer upon hearing the King's words. She rose from her seat with the assistance of her escort, before swiftly moving from the Royal Compartment. On the arm of Ser Barristan, Cersei slowly and methodically descended the stairs, ever attentive of her current condition.

The moment their feet graced the dirt, she immediately felt safer, giving a silent prayer to The Smith. After gaining knowledge of her newest babe, she found herself praying far more frequently, seeking solace in the idea of a higher power.

As the pair walked the grounds, many stopped to bow before her, wishing her good fortune in carrying. She acknowledged each, as courtesy dictated before moving along.

They had nearly reached her litter, having taken in several stray Lannister men-at-arms along the way, when Cersei noticed that Ser Barristan's attention had once more been stolen. She looked in the direction of his helm, taking in the sight of the mysterious knight from before.

As if feeling her gaze, the Lord Commander snapped his attention to her litter as it came into view, striding diligently toward her transport, assessing the field for possible threats.

Try as she might, Cersei could not bury a feeling that had been gnawing at her conscious for days. Unbidden, the thought drifted to the surface of her mind, bursting forth like flame from a dragons maw. "I thought to see your name in the lists, Ser?" She said, taking hold of his elbow, slowing their progress to prolong their conversation.

He looked back to her, his gait slowing somewhat as he took several diagonal steps, his face becoming more visible with each. "It was until three mornings ago." He said, looking down upon her, his eyes not unkind. "I withdrew." He said simply, offering no further explanation.

"Is something wrong with your health, Ser?" She asked, more curious than concerned. If Ser Barristan fell, that would leave Jaime as his natural replacement, having served the longest of the Kingsguard, outside of Selmy. Though she held no great enmity for the man, his loyalty was not to her, which made him a threat.

The aged knight shook his head, smiling down at her, kindly. "Nothing of the sort." He said, dashing her perceived concerns in the wind. "I merely mean to give the next crop of Knights this opportunity, without this old man getting in their way." He said, chuckling wryly, adding to the snickers of the Lannister guardsmen, as well as her own.

Having paid close attention to his wording, she capitalized on a key phrase, using it shift to a subject of more interest to her. "Speaking of the 'next crop of knights,' I see that your squires have gone missing." She said, smiling kindly to the sworn shield.

His face suddenly shifted into one of panic, before relaxing drastically, settling into a mask of indifference. "I gave them both leave to enjoy the tourney and ensuing festivities." He said, though his tone told her that he was not telling her everything.

"I did not see them with their father, in their place of honor." She said, watching Barristan cringe at her words. But which ones, she thought, desperately in need of mor information. "Were they elsewhere?" She asked, innocently.

"I'm sure I saw them around, somewhere." He said. "Though you are correct. They were not with Lord Stark." He continued, halting in his step as they reached her litter. "Your Grace?" He extended a hand, offering to help her into her litter. She gladly accepts, realizing that she would receive no further information on this day.

As the curtain closes behind her, cutting her off from the outer world, Cersei smiles inwardly, having learned more than she knew before. Foremost, both Stark boys had been in attendance, judging by the way Ser Barristan answered her question, though they were not in the Noble's Stands. They may have been with the commoners, she thought, however unlikely the idea was. In addition to that, she knew where to uncover more information on the Stark boys' habits and plans.

 _Tommen._


	8. The Crucible

**THE WOLF PUP**

 _The sound of hooves crunching through dried, dead foliage alerted the pack to the presence of their prey, their scent obscured by the direction of the wind. With a nod of his head, Jon signaled for the small cousins to get into position, preparing to rouse the beast from its shelter._

 _No! Not Jon. He thought, rushing forward, regaining his identity._

 _I am within Ghost, he thought. I am within the beast._

 _Such thoughts were pushed to the back of his mind as he crashed through the underbrush, taking his prey unawares. In the center of a small thicket, encompassed on all sides but one by his pack, a herd of deer, no more than eight in number, lazily grazed upon the grass growing beneath the canopy overhead._

 _In the moment before the two factions clashed, a strange recognition passed over the largest of the herd, a stag, broad and imposing. The horns upon his crown stood high and regal, nearly twice the length of its body._

 _The moment is broken as the pack descends upon their prey, the herd turning to flee. Dipping low on their haunches, the bulk of the her swiftly sprung towards the clearing, just beyond the copse of elms. Not all were fortunate enough to escape, two doe falling before they could finish turning toward the clearing, a single stag lay dead on the forest floor, impaling two more doe with his horns before falling himself._

 _And there were three._

 _The last of the the herd sprinted across the tree line, their flight desperate and frantic. Ghost could smell their fear as the wind shifted, forcing the aroma of terror and sweat and skin into his snout, driving him onward._

 _From either side of the small clearing, a cluster of small cousins flooded the area, led by his massive kin. the wild brother, Summer, a ringing at the back of his head informed, sprang from the brush to his left, his companions making short work of two of the remaining herd._

 _And there was one._

 _His thoughts were quelled as the wild sister sprang forth from the right, jutting forward to take the large antlered beast. She reached his flank in but an instant, snapping out at his hind legs, her jaws coming up empty as the beast veered to the side, darting forward towards the edge of the clearing, leaving the wild sister to tumble to the ground in his wake._

 _Ghost pursued viciously, slowing for a moment before Nymeria, bumping her softly as she rose on steady legs, the pair darting towards the treeline in pursuit of their prey._

 _The pack behind them had lessened, many stopping to eat their feel from the felled herd left in their wake. Summer, Ghost and Nymeria continued to pursue the beast, leaving their companions behind, with their smaller legs and shorter three of them easily made progress in their pursuit of the beast, nature having groomed them for rougher terrain and harsher climates than this. Try as it might, the stag could not shake the trio of pursuers at its back._

 _Darting through a wind threshold of trees, the stag burst forward, not noticing the retreat of the three direwolves behind it. Or the flash of grey hurtling towards its flank._

 _As the small sister burst forth, biting into the back left haunch of the stag, tearing at flesh and bone and fur, her brothers and sister stood back, drinking in the sight and savagery. Their admiration only lasted a moment, the scent of blood overpowering their pride of their pack, drawing them in._

 _Taking his first bite, Ghost savored the warmth of a fresh kill between his teeth, the blood flooding his maw-_

* * *

The floor of his tent rose to meet him, his face colliding with the lukewarm grass beneath him.

"I tried to wake you!" Said a small, shrill voice, somewhere above him.

Jon groaned audibly, making his disappointment clear to his baby brother. He barely had any time to process his fall and regain his feet, before Bran began to tug on his armor, urging him to rise.

"Where were you?" The lordling asked, as Jon hopped into a crouch, slowly making his way to a full stand. Without receiving an answer, he went about seeing to Jon's armor, just as Ser Barristan had taught them.

He took a deep breath as Brandon did his work, looking around the room in an attempt to reacquaint himself with the space. "Somewhere in the Kingswood." He responded, his voice hoarse with disuse. "It was me and Ny-" He paused, realizing his slip. "Ghost. It was Ghost and Nymeria and Summer." He continued, pausing to inhale as Bran tightened his gorget. "The pack is even bigger now! I wish you could've seen it; Lady even made a kill." He continued, the word flowing like the mouth of a river.

His little brother snorted. "Well, someone had to wake you for your next tilt." He derided, moving to the flap of the tent. "Your horse has been fed, watered and saddled."

Jon moved to stand behind him, assuring that his face would not be seen through the flap of the tent, he placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently. "I can never thank you enough for this, brother." He whispered, shaking Bran gently. "Maybe one day, when you get your spurs and have your first tourney, I'll squire for you."

Bran turned on his heel, smiling into the face of his elder brother. "I'll hold you to your word, brother." He said, his smile broadening. "You may not be a Stark, but your word should count as much as mine." The boy finished, proud of the lesson he had shoved back in Jon's face.

Jon forced a smile, trying to overlook the incidental slight in his brother's words, focusing instead on the intent.

"So, who is my opponent?" He asked, forcefully changing the subject of the conversation. " _The Knight of Flowers_?" He asked, false sarcasm lacing his voice, attempting to mask the trepidation he felt at the prospect of facing the knightly son of Highgarden. "Or maybe another Frey?" He asked, the smile broadening across his face at the idea.

He knew, just as well as Bran, that there were no more Freys in the lists, having unhorsed several himself. Fortunately, their abundance of knighted kin was not reflective of the family's skill, as each Frey he faced was only slightly better than the last. Certain members were exceptions, he had heard, though none had deigned to attend the tourney, it would seem.

The look of trepidation upon Bran's little face was more than enough to give Jon pause. He began pacing the tent, the soles of his boots trampling the grass beneath them. "Ser Jaime." He breathed, almost inaudibly. He clears his throat, ensuring the clarity of his words before he speaks. "You'll be facing Ser Jaime next." He restates, confirming Jon's fear.

 _Hells_ , he thinks, taking hold of his borrowed great helm in preparation for his next tilt. Donning his helm, he could feel Bran's eyes burning a hole into his back. "You think I'll lose." He surmised, not having to ask.

For a brief moment, the two stand in complete silence, Bran not wanting to admit what both know to be true. "I never said that!" The small boy exclaimed, barely containing his panic. "This thing that we can do-" Bran broke off, attempting to find the right words to articulate his feelings. "It changes us." He said, his small fists closing on one of Jon's wrists. "I know you can feel it."

Turning to face his brother, Jon sighs audibly, the sound ringing within his helm. "I'll be careful, Bran." He says, mussing his brother's hair.

Stepping outside of his tent, Jon takes stock of his mount, drinking happily from his trough, preparing for the coming tilt. He put out a hand, rubbing the flank of his partner as he drank his fill. The sound of the tent flap fluttering behind him alerted him to the emergence of Bran. "Tommen told me he would squire tomorrow." Bran said, trying to change the subject, likely attempting to quell their doubts. "He's going bring Ser Barristan as well."

Jon nodded slightly, until he realized that with his height and the helm covering his head, the gesture might be lost on Bran. "Good." He affirmed. "I can use his advice for what's to come."

With that, he motioned for his mount to cease his drinking, smoothing his hands over the muzzle of the beast. Moving around to the side of his partner, Jon slips his foot into the stirrup of the saddle, slinging his body over the stallion to secure his other leg. Through all of this, Brandon Stark stood silently. "Nothing is going to happen to me, Bran." Jon says, looking down to his brother. For that is what he is. "This is what we talked about."

"I know." Bran chimed, looking down at his feet, scraping his shoe across the flaxen grass. "I just keep seeing you on the ground, broken. It scares me."

"I'm afraid as well, brother." He sighs, having hoped to avoid this subject. "But I need to make a name for myself. As a bastard, I will inherit nothing, and father is not like to give me so much as a hut, let alone a small keep." He says, attempting to keep the bitterness from his voice, almost choking on the irony of his recent discovery. "All that I have, I shall have to gain for myself. And that starts with building a reputation for myself." Without another word, Jon spurred his horse forward heading toward the tilt yard. As he trots, his thoughts are drawn to the possible setbacks for his current plan.

While he had gotten ample practice using his gift since learning of his shared secret with Bran, pushing his abilities to its limit, he had yet to use it in a true tilt. In practice, Jon had discovered that his bond worked both ways, as he tends to bring a piece of Ghost back with him whenever he shares their bond. Each time he had come back, his senses were sharper, more acute. With the eyes of Ghost, the slightest change in movement could be seen, allowing him to adjust to minute changes in circumstance. This coupled with his sense of smell and hearing, Jon had repeatedly sparred with several knights at a time, testing his abilities and finding them delightful. Along with his other senses, his strength and speed seemed to increase, if only marginally.

While he originally planned to compete without the use of the gift, he became further tempted as the competition became thinner, leaving only the elite behind, including Ser Loras, Ser Jaime, Lord Renly and both Cleganes.

He thought himself fortunate to be jousting Ser Jaime, as he had no desire to face Lord Renly or Ser Loras, as either of them seemed wholly likable people, and either Clegane would be too massive to truly defeat at his current strength, no matter his desires to do just that.

 _Not yet_ , he thought, pushing down thoughts better left in the dark.

He also had very personal reasons for wanting to bring Jaime Lannister low, specifically the way he interacted with his sister. Since beginning his stay within the Red Keep, Jon had witnessed the cool nature of Ser Jaime's attitude toward his twin sister. From time to time, his behavior even approached outright aggression, cornering Cersei, making threatening gestures, even laying hands on her.

While he could not overtly slay a knight of the Kingsguard, he could certainly bring him to heel with a sound defeat.

As his stallion canters into the tilt yard, all thoughts of possible defeat abandon him, replaced by a yearning to see his Queen adorned in a crown of roses.

Bran trots to his side, bringing his pony to a halt. Looking to his side, the river blue eyes of his little brother are staring into his helm, peering from beneath his cowl. "You will win, Jon." He said, giving a weak smile that failed to mask his trepidation. The gesture itself was worth more than anything, despite the obvious dishonesty it was delivered with.

Reaching out a mailed hand, Jon mussed the hood covering Bran's mop of red curls. "Thank you." He said, reaching down and taking hold of the lance his brother balanced in his arms. "Now take your place." Jon ordered, turning back to the field, looking to Ser Jaime. "This won't take long."

All else fell away. The noise of the crowd became a dull buzz. The fading light of the sun acted as a backdrop to the golden, gilded form of Ser Jaime, making his armor all the more pronounced. Every crease and fold and crevice of his opponent armor became visible, the softer joints shining like beacons in the night.

The signal is given for the first pass to begin.

Jon spurs his mount forward, as the Knight Marshall scrambles to find cover from the encroaching mounted warriors.

Beneath him, he can feel the smooth gait of his mount reverberating through his body, as though they were one. He held his lance steady as the moment ticked away, the wolf within him dragging time along. Looking. Searching. Hunting.

Within a hairs breath of clashing, Jon takes note of the slightly askew position of Ser Jaime's shield. With the current position of his lance, the coronel was like to glance harmlessly off of Ser Jaime's shield. Fortunately, this left the other side of his shield disproportionately vulnerable.

Slipping back in his saddle, Jon angled his lance to the other side of the Kingslayer's shield, sliding his own shield forward, disrupting the path of Ser Jaime's lance. The collision came in the same moment.

The pain in his shoulder nearly topples him from his saddle, forcing him to drop the remains of his shattered lance in order to better grip the reins. It took him several moments to right himself, bringing his stallion to heel as the crowd broke into raucous commotion around them. Wheeling his mount around in preparation for the next pass, the young squire is greeted by the sight of Jaime Lannister, clutching his sword arm as he writhes on the ground, his squires rushing to his aid.

He makes to assist Ser Jaime, trotting in his general direction, though he thinks better of it, wishing to avoid adding insult to injury. He instead trots further down the list field, dismounting his stallion just beyond reach of Ser Jaime's frantic mount.

Reaching out with his mind, he calms the beast, leading it toward the fallen knight. "Tell your master, I plan to come for my prize later, but for now, he may leave the field with his mount and armor intact." He informed the pair of petrified Lannisters, ignoring the fictitious daggers they were glaring into his helm. He watched as the pair helped Ser Jaime back onto his mount, ushering him off of the field in preparation for the next tilt.

With his match over, Jon took hold of the reins of his mount, leading the beast from the field. It is only then that he takes notice of the two men taking the field. Ser Gregor Clegane cantered onto the field, his mount screaming in agony, its mind scratching at the walls around Jon's own soul. Across from the massive child-killing monster, a knight in gleaming armor, fit for a king, rode atop a fresh mount.

Finally making his way off of the list fields, he barely had the time to tie his mount before a raucous cry rose from the crowd, falling to silence before he could turn to see the cause for commotion.

On the ground before the crowd, the broken form of Ser Gregor's challenger sat, battered and broken. As the onlookers murmured among themselves, blood continued to flow across the list fields, smearing the soil in a rich crimson, like the banks of the rivers he had seen on his way to King's Landing. Though he is horrified by the sight of such brutality for the sake of entertainment, he finds himself unable to look away. Suddenly, the body on the ground becomes smaller, all of the armor is stripped away, exposing a thin frame wrapped in skin the color of olive. It takes Jon no amount of time to recognize the form conjured by his mind, the image of what Elia Martell might have been, stretched before him, plaguing his vision. The field before him gives a slight reprieve, only to taunt him further, as the body begins to morph once more, becoming even smaller and paler. Jon jerks his head away, refusing to bend to the will of his demons, parading an image of a broken babe before him.

His eyes catch the retreating, unrepentant form of Ser Gregor Clegane, The Mountain That Rides, stoking his ire. Something inside of him begins to crack. _No, not crack. Boil_.

He begins to fume, feeling the beast within him fighting to break free, as the broken carcass of the knight is removed from the list field. The body of some random knight does not concern him. He only has eyes for Ser Gregor.


	9. Chapter 9

THE LIONESS

A knock on the door of her bedchambers roused Cersei from her sleep, forcing her from the temporary asylum from her responsibilities.

The knock came again, followed by the stern voice of Ser Mandon Moore. "Your Grace, the-"

His words are interrupted by another knock, lighter and hastier than the first. "Mother!" Tommen's voice boomed from the other side of the door, the wood doing scarcely anything to keep the noise at bay. Again, the knock came. "Mother!"

She groaned audibly, praying that he displeasure would reach them, keeping them at a distance for a bit longer. To her everlasting gratitude, the noise subsided, replaced by a low whisper outside of the door.

Moments later, the door creaks open slightly, revealing a cluster of handmaidens, running to and fro in preparation for the days' festivities. Beneath the threshold of the door, passed the scurrying maids, Ser Mandon and Tommen stood immobile.

The small boy stared at his mother, a smile brimming on his face, his eyes nailing her to the feather-bed. "We have to be ready!" The boy shouted, barely restrained from converging on her by the dour Ser Mandon. Its seemed to take all of the knight's considerable skill to keep the her child at bay

His patience having finally run its course, Ser Mandon hauled his prince from the floor, taking him underneath his arm and turning to leave. "Come along young prince." The white cloaked knight commanded, tucking the boy more securely underneath his mailed arm. "The Queen must ready herself for the tourney." He affirmed, carrying the prince of the realm out of the Queen's Chambers as though he were a common sack of flour, pulling the door to with his free hand.

With the exit of her son and their sworn guard, Cersei felt herself relax, rising unsteadily as her handmaidens make the necessary preparations for the day ahead.

Easing down into her bath, allowing the scent of rose oil to take hold of her, Cersei began to survey the space around her. A woman, barely older than Myrcella really, brought forth a pair of gowns, both tailored to fit her ever expanding middle. To the left, the child held a gown of the purest black, thread of gold was intricately laced into the bodice, just above the belly, creating a pattern resembling interwoven stag horns branching over her breasts. To the right, a gown of much the same design hung from the girl's other hand, the fabric the dyed to the brightest of crimson, stitched with golden thread, creating the gilded silhouette of a lion across the bodice and at the wrists.

As two others scrubbed her thoroughly, removing the grime from the previous day and subsequent night, Cersei made a show of deciding which gown she would wear, having decided long ago to avoid wearing the Baratheon colors if at all possible. With a wave of her arm, red and raw and damp from her bath, she gestures to the gown denoting her heritage as the daughter of The Rock, the thick rich crimson and the smell of red roses lulling her into a daze as she goes about her preparations.

She drowns her troubles in oils and waters.

* * *

Cersei could feel the mounting tension in the air before reaching the tourney grounds, the unease about the fields having been expressed within the outskirts of the city beneath the shadow of Visenya's Hill.

All about them, the shallow murmuring could be heard as the spectators, lowborn and high, whispered about the festivities ahead.

While it was not strange for spectators to whisper about a tourney, the amount of trepidation that could be felt from the masses was unheard of in times of peace. As Cersei climbed the Royal dais, Myrcella and Jaime in tow, Tommen having absconded with Ser Barristan some time ago, she could feel a foreboding rumble within her belly.

Stepping into the box, she drew the attention of Robert and Joffrey, both of whom scorned the idea of breaking their fasts with their wife and mother, respectively. "You seem well." Robert reported gruffly, addressing her with a modicum of concern.

She nodded, taking in the field before them, where the melee was beginning to wind down, less than a dozen men still fought. Most notable among the combatant was Ser Thoros of Myr, his flaming sword acting as a beacon. "I am. It took me a bit longer than expected to ready myself." She said, stepping forward to stand next to Robert. Jaime stepped forward, extending his arm to ease her into her seat. She took hold of his forearm graciously, slipping into her place of honor next to the King. "I thought that the melee would be held after the completion of the joust?' She inquired, confused by the sight before her. She doubted that the joust would have concluded so quickly, as there were at least three matches scheduled for the day.

Robert shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearly preparing to deliver troubling news. "About that." He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "There was a minor setback, so we pushed the melee forward until we could decide on a solution." He said, clearly disappointed that he was not competing.

"I thought to see you on the field as well, Your Grace?" She inquired, knowing that he fully intended on participating.

" _In his infinite wisdom_ , my Hand has spoken fervently against my involvement." He said, gesturing to the field. "Leaving the true fight to Ser Thoros and that thrice damned _Knght of the Lion Heart_." He said, sloshing the wine in his goblet and turning her stomach.

Looking to her side she could see the irritation on his brow at the mention of the mystery knight. "And why is he damned so fiercely?" She asked, as Jaime has never been her husbands favorite White Cloak.

Laying his goblet aside, Robert looks to her in surprise. "As you can likely tell from the mewling chattel in the stands, the Knight of the Lion's Heart has formally challenged The Mountain, who was meant to face The Knight of Flowers." He says, pointing to the field, where the only two combatants are Ser Thoros and Rickard the Lion Heart.

"I had Renly speak with the boy to see if there would be an issue. He knows the Flowers better than I." He said, as Cersei had to fight the urge to tell him how well his brother knew the Knight of Flowers. "So, I pushed the melee forward in hopes of continuing the-"

Robert's next words are drowned out as the raucous noise of the crowd signals the end of the melee, with Ser Thoros still on his horse, his flaming sword still burning brightly. Below him, standing in the soil below was another of the participants, his plate unadorned and monotone, mismatched and poorly fitting as it was.

For a long moment the two merely stood in the center, the mystery knight looking into the face of his opponent, before doing something strange. He places a mailed fist to his chest, bowing before the superior skill of Ser Thoros, causing the crowd to cheer even louder.

As the field begins to clear, squires rushing in to take hold of their battered and beaten masters, the mystery knight takes his leave, bringing with him the attention of many. Including Ser Thoros and Ser Jaime.

Rising to his feet, steadier than he has been in years, Robert prepares to address the crowd. "This brings an end to the Melee. Your champion is Ser Thoros of Myr." He booms. "There will be a brief intermission, then the final jousts shall commence." He says gruffly, walking away from the Dais in preparation for the next event.

Jaime extended his hand to help her up, formal to a fault, his characteristic easy smile gone. She took the hand, following after her husband as her brother followed behind her. Always behind her.

* * *

Returning to the stands after their midday meal, the profuse tension about the grounds could still be felt deep within her bones. With the preparations for the first tilt all but done, the crowd is left to wait for the second competitor to arrive.

To one end of the field, Ser Gregor Clegane rests upon a massive stallion, casting an imposing shadow over the barricade the two riders. In the stands closest to him, the audience is eerily silent, fearful of rousing the beast among them. Beneath the monstrous mass of flesh and bone and steel, his mount seems to struggle under the excessive weight of his armor, swaying from side to side on unsteady legs.

To the opposing side, the field is empty, the runner having been dispatched to retrieve Ser Rickard only moments prior.

"So." Cersei chimes, giving a cursory glance to the assembled warriors, from Robert to Ser Mandon, even Jaime, though he does not return her gaze. "Does anyone have a prediction for the upcoming tilts?" She probes, adjusting herself upon the seat, placing a hand on her swollen belly, protectively.

"The Mountain is going to crush this little mystery knight, like all the rest." Joffrey chimes in, ignoring the slight grins from Ser Mandon, Jaime Ser Preston Greenfield. "The man has to weight twelve stone at the least. His opponent no heavier than myself." He said, defiantly flicking his wrist, dismissing their smirks.

"And what of you Kingslayer?" Robert asks, his face genuinely pensive. "You've faced the man." He says, lending esteem to Jaime's opinion, by virtue of experience.

All eyes turn to Jaime as he seems to ponder the question, intent on giving sage counsel. "I am unsure who will emerge victorious," He admits, brushing a mailed hand through his hair. "Though if someone would like to place a wager, I'll bet on The Lion Heart." He looks to Ser Preston, a challenging look in his eyes.

The landed knight raises his hands in surrender. "I would not bet against The Mountain, but," He begins, allowing his last word to hang in the air, leaving his thoughts to the imagination of those around him.

A light scoff resonates from the side, where Joffrey has risen from his seat, a look of displeasure marring his face. "I would wager half my inheritance." He glowered, a defiant look in his eye. "A joust is nothing but a game of luck. Any fool can get lucky." He continued, barely containing his frustration. "The Mountain is an unstoppable force."

All around her, the veteran warriors stood quietly, taking in the words of their future king. "Ser Gregor is likely to lose this tilt, and Sandor Clegane after him." Mandon Moore states, his tone cold and factual, his eyes flat and lifeless. "Ser Gregor is the sturdier man, though his opponent is more precise, along with being slighter in build. This makes him harder to hit, as we saw with Ser Jaime." He continues, nodding to Jaime, respectfully.

Jaime purses his lips, attempting to keep his grin on display. "Not only that, he also has good instincts." He retorts, looking down to his boots. "He saw right through my shift during our tilt." He persists. "I lost a perfectly good piece of armor and a fine mount."

Robert opens his mouth, preparing to retort, when the signal is given, assuring that both participants are ready. With a nonchalant wave of his hand, Robert gives the order for the tilt to begin.

Spurring their mounts forward, the two challengers level their lances, the ensuing clash lasting less than a moment. As the moments creep onward, the distance between the riders growing wider as they slow their mounts from a gallop to a trot, their is no discernible difference from the moment before they collided, both men seeming healthy and whole.

Looking to the mountain, Cersei takes not of the seemingly unscathed lance in his hand, the tip hovering just above the ground. As it catches on the turf beneath him, the mountain tumbles from his stallion, pulverizing the dirt with his massive body, his armor grinding and creaking as the joints work against one another.

A group of squires rush to the field, taking hold of the massive man, attempting to roll him onto his back and remove his armor, in an effort to asses the damage, she assumes. In an almost comical display, seven squires work to turn the man on his back, pushing and pulling on the metal, until finally, with a massive thud, Ser Gregor's blood soaked chest is on full display.

Sticking from his collar, on the side of his sword arm, a piece of bone can be seen sticking from his skin, while another bone struck from the other side, just below his underarm, both soaked in blood. No, not bone. She thought, craning her neck to observe the man at the other end of the tilt yard, holding the remains of a lance in his hand, his shield having been discarded a ways back, his helm staring into the waiting area at the end of the field.

Turning her head a bit more, she took in the form of Sandor Clegane, The Hound. Beneath his snarling helm, his scarred face gave nothing away, a look of indifference plastered upon his skull.

Without a single word, the Lion Heart gallops from the field, never turning his head. Not looking down to the field as the bloody remains of Ser Gregor Clegane are hauled through the dirt, leaving a trail of burgundy behind him.

"This was more than likely an execution." She hears from her side, looking over to see the pale, cold eyes of Ser Mandon studying the field. "He likely challenged The Mountain hoping to get a clean shot at killing the man, without facing the consequences." He continues, his eyes falling on Cersei at the end.

To a certain extent, she can believe what he is saying, though she finds the idea completely idiotic. What remotely sane person would joust The Mountain That Rides, risking their life on the chance that they might win.

Her thoughts are scattered once more, the pounding of hooves bringing her to the present, where Sandor Clegane is galloping toward Ser Loras Tyrell, his mount unstable beneath his body. The Hound collides harshly with the lance of Ser Loras, tumbling to the ground upon impact, finding no friend in the coarse dirt as the terrain gives him a heavy thump.

Off to the side, the mystery knight canters from the edge of field, signaling for his two squires, even smaller than himself, to stay put, pointing to another of his companions, gesturing for him to follow.

Near the center of the list field, The Hound makes it to his feet, clutching his shoulder as he glowers at the Knight of Flowers. In lieu of confronting the man before him, Sandor Clegane merely stalks from the field in cold fury, allowing his hatred and humiliation to fester.

Ser Loras merely sits atop his mare, awaiting the last tilt of the tourney. The Knight of Flowers, third son of Mace Tyrell, seems comfortable in the saddle, as though his victory is all but assured.

"Clever boy?" Someone says.

She cocks her head, taking in the sight of Jaime once more. Though, instead of standing guard, he seems more intent on watching the end of the field, where the mystery knight had just made his exodus. She turns her head, noting the commotion that rises from the crowd as the man returns to the field, after ending Ser Gregor, mounted on a new horse. This one is a mare of purest chestnut, her muzzle stripped with a single line of white.

"He seems to have sorted things out for himself rather well." Se Arys chimes in, taking stock of the developing scene below. "I doubt that the trick will fool anyone who's seen it." He continues, coming to stand next to Jaime.

She clears her throat, disturbing the men folk from their private conversation, drawing their attention to her, allowing them to note the confusion on her face.

"They're saying that the Flower's mare is in heat." Robert booms from beside her, causing her to feel foolish, if somewhat indignant. "It drove The Dog's stallion mad and ruined his tilt." He explained further. "Nothing I can do about it now. My judgement has been made." He concludes, turning back to the field where the two men have made the necessary preparations.

Robert waves his hand, giving the signal for the final tilt to begin, the Knight Marshall darting out of the way, attempting to clear the area of the two clashing forces. Both lean in form and sure of aim, it is anyone's guess as to who will be crowned the victor of the tourney.

Time seems to slow, just as the two men are near to clashing, the movements almost magical, both men seemingly merging with their mounts in a perfect fluid motion. The clash happens swiftly.

Instantly, Ser Loras is thrown from his mount, tumbling to the ground with a sickening crunch. He rolls in the dirt several times before eventually landing on his back, the center of his breastplate nearly a concave from the sheer force of the blow.

The crowd erupts into a wave of raucous noise, chanting the chosen epithet for the mystery knight. As one, the common folk seem to be enticed by the novelty of making lewd and tasteless gestures, with several women relieving themselves of their clothing, throwing them onto the field. It is complete bedlam.

For a long moment, the mystery knight allows his horse to canter in the center of the list fields, seemingly basking in the cheers of the crowds. This changes as his mount begins to veer into the partition between competitors, the rider clutching his helm as the masses begin to compose themselves.

The man's retainers gallop forward, clearly concerned about their master, the cowls that had been adorning their heads flying away as they reach their destination. A small boy with golden hair reaches upward toward the knight, his small hand gripping the great helm upon his head. The man takes note of the boy, remembering where he is, looking about to see the stunned audience, as they take in the sight of their Prince, along with the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and a small boy she knows as Brandon Stark.

Taking stock of those around him, the champion moves his hands to his helm, removing the mass of metal, allowing a tumble of dark brown curls to break free. Ignoring the blood covering a portion of his face, Jon puts out a hand to Tommen, who proceeds to take hold of a lance in his chubby little hands. The prince then latches onto Jon's mailed arm, gesturing for him to pull him onto his own horse, which he does, grabbing the boy bodily, hauling him onto his own mount. Jon wraps an arm around Tommen keeping him steady, allowing the boy to take hold of the lance, while keeping it aloft with a hand of his own.

Tommen looks to the older boy, expressing something that cannot be heard over the raucous roar of the crowd. Jon leans in, whispering something into Tommen's ear, causing the prince's face to burst into a massive smile.

Taking control of the lance, Tommen spears the crown of crown of crimson roses, looking back to Jon for his mark of approval, allowing the lance to dip a bit. Swiftly, Jon levels the lance, catching the garland before it can slip from the edge, as Tommen leans back, whispering into his ear, pointing towards the Noble's Stands. Jon slowly lifts his eyes, nodding his head before spurring his mare into a slow trot, heading towards the stands.

As they grow closer to the Noble's section, Cersei feels the pounding of her heart, threatening to escape from between her breasts. Finally the pair stop before the Royal Dais, Tommen nervously looking to all of the faces above them.

"M-m-mother-" He stumbles, his voice barely above a dull whisper, his eyes sinking lower toward the ground with each syllable. Suddenly a hand is on his shoulder, squeezing lightly in reassurance as Jon lowers his mouth to Tommen's ear. With each word, Tommen seems to find more courage. He clears his throat. "Mother," He says, his voice still shrill, though carrying more weight than before. "As my queen, and my lady mother, I wish to honor you as my _Queen of Love and Beauty_." He says, lifting the lance, with the aid of Jon Snow, depositing the crown of crimson roses into her lap. "May you give me a healthy brother." He says, gesturing for Jon to trot from the field, with Ser Barristan at his side and Brandon Stark at their heels, handling the reins of his pony. "Or a sister!" He turns back, shouting over the shoulder of his escort. This draws a round of raucous, blaring laughter, which fills both sides of the tourney grounds with mirth. Surprisingly, even Robert is on his feet in a fit of laughter, though he spent most of the day in a particularly foul mood.

Panning over the crowd, very few are able to keep a straight face after such a spectacle. Looking into the face of Lord Stark however, she can see that the Hand is upset by something, his face a mask of stone, poorly hiding his discontent. At what, she knows not. Though she would like to.


	10. Chapter 10

**THE GIANT SLAYER**

"It has been quite some time since one so young has made such an impression." The man said, a smile stretching across his face, nearly detracting Jon's gaze from the crimson and emerald feathers adorning his neck and torso. "Barristan the Bold reborn, the people are saying."

For a moment, he sat stunned, the feathers still capturing his attention, until he realized he was in a conversation. "Thank you my Prince, but I am no knight." He recovered, remembering to use the honorific the banished Prince of the Red Flower Vale preferred, according to the king.

Tilting his head slightly at his misstep, Xho's smile falters momentarily. "Just so, Master Snow, you are the champion all the same." He says, leaning in a bit closer, waving his hand through the air between them in a grandiose manner. "As a man of-" He says, creasing his brow as he studies Jon's face. "Six and ten."

"Five and ten." He responds, attempting to mask his annoyance at the Prince. "I turned five and ten before reaching the city." He further explained, only realizing his mistake after he made it.

The prince's demeanor brightens heavily as he latches onto a possible common ground. "You've just had a nameday?" He nearly shouted, drawing the eyes of several passersby. "How did you celebrate your step into manhood?"

"I stopped my sister and our wolves from being executed." He returns flatly, causing the smile adorning his dark skinned companions' face to drop. "As a bastard, I rarely have a grand spectacle such as this in my honor." Jon said, waving his hand around in the air, gesturing to the festivities around them.

For several moments, the pair sat in silence, Jalabhar Xho clearly attempting to find a way to restart their conversation as Jon silently dared him to try.

Just as Xho seems ready to move along, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair which once hosted Ser Thoros of Myr, he shifts his weight heavily in the chair, securing himself on his chosen perch. "Even so, your bastard status aside, you have distinguished yourself from others," He says, waving his hand about the crowd. "defeating several men well above your station, including the Knight of Roses." Xho continues, grating against his patience even further. "I could use a man like you, for when I retake my kingdom, Jon the Giant Slayer." Xho persists, finally finding the proper thread, unraveling the practiced calm Jon had spent his lifetime of bastardry cultivating.

In the time that had elapsed since his triumph over Ser Gregor Clegane, the entirety of the Red Keep, highborn and low, had taken to addressing Jon by one of the several epithets that has been created since, denoting his crude victory. He's heard every name from _Jon Giant's Bane_ , to _The Red Wolf_ , which a washer woman mistakenly addressed him as earlier this very evening. Of the names he has heard thus far, the most insulting was _The Snow that Crumbled the Mountain_ ; a clear play on his status as a bastard. It's as if the populace is judging him for slaying the monstrous man, who was more monster than man, and dispensing Justice that was long overdue. And there is more Justice to be had.

Attempting to contain his ire, Jon begins to flee into his other self, seeking out the calm sanctuary of Ghost's mind as the image of the crowd is soon overtaken by that of his brother and sisters, huddle together in their den surrounded by the small cousins. He is drawn back to the conversation, his attempt interrupted by Jalabhar Xho's persistent chattering.

Just as he is contemplating dismissing himself from the feast, a small cough draws his attention to the opposite side of the table, where a small person waits patiently. "Jon?" She intrudes on the building tension, her voice soft and sweet. She rocks nervously on her feet, her golden hair swaying from side to side as a small strand of hair falls over her emerald eyes. Extending a had to him, Princess Myrcella Baratheon gestures for him to take hold of her arm. "Would you care to dance with me, Jon?" She questions, skipping the unnecessary honorific of _Ser_ , unlike the other higher born attendees.

Rising from his seat with all haste, nearly toppling the table and its contents onto the floor, Jon pounces on the chance to rid himself of the Prince of The Red Flower Vale as he comes upon Myrcella on the other side. Taking hold of the offered arm, Jon escorts the young princess into the fray, slipping by several couples already in the process of performing to the cadence, ignoring the uncouth shouts that masquerade as whispers.

Taking Myrcella's hand in his own, aligning their bodies properly as the rhythm slows to a crawl, Jon cannot help but thank the gods for the years that Sansa and Jeyne Poole once used Robb and himself to practice their steps.

The pair fall into step with the rest of floor, moving and swaying with the assembled guests. As a child of less than ten namedays, Princess Myrcella moved with a practiced grace that reminded him of Sansa, though Jon still has to compensate for the difference in height. Fortunately for them, none would notice, as the eyes that once followed them seem to have found other things to occupy their attention.

"You are a very good dancer, Jon." Myrcella utters softly, drawing his attention downward towards his partner, pulling him in with her innocent emeralds. "I apologize if my height is a problem." She elaborates, looking into his eyes as her own glitter with an emotion that he find troubling. "It is very gracious of you, taking account of my shorter legs." She declares, tapping his shoulder twice as the cadence shifts. "Twirl me." She commands.

He does, spinning her softly as she becomes lost in the crowd, leaving Jon to take hold of a new partner and fall back into step with the rest of the floor.

The woman in his arms could not have differed more from princess Myrcella, despite the golden hair upon her head. Unlike the princess, the woman is tall as well as being well proportioned, her vast bosom against his chest, and wide hips swaying with his indicating her jaunt into womanhood.

Following the sudden change in tempo, Jon lifts his hand above the unnamed woman's head, twirling her about. As she turns, her backside lingers just a bit longer than necessary, allowing his hips to explore more of her body. Facing Jon once more as she leans heavily into his embrace, she thrusts her breasts tighter against his chest as she smiles seductively. "You move with your feet as well as you do with a lance." She teases, leaning in as their breathing hastens, from the dancing or the tension, he cannot tell.

"Many thanks, my lady." He returns, gripping her hips tightly as they hasten their steps, darting through the cluttered floor, her hair tumbling loosely over her shoulder. "I've been told." He smiles, releasing her to her next partner as he takes hold of Princess Myrcella once more.

In his embrace once more, Myrcella begins to speak, taking up the same topic as before as though they had never parted. "I thought you were wonderful in the tourney, Jon." She says, nearly tripping over his boot, clutching his hand tightly to steady herself. She blushes prettily. "Thank you, Ser."

"I am no Ser, Princess." He corrects, causing her blush to deepen.

"It was very exciting to see you joust, Jon." She blurted, forcefully abandoning the ensuing conversation of his bastardry. "You seemed to be almost half horse at times. It was quite entertaining." She continues, slowing her pace as the music ebbs to a halt.

Taking her by the arm, he escorts her from the floor while searching the hall for another Baratheon woman entirely. In the seat of the highest honor, where Robert Baratheon should sit with his queen, a massive drunken lout sits upon a King's chair, pawing at a serving girl nearby. Upon his chin, his beard glistens with wine and food as he slams his massive paw on the table, screaming for more wine. Though Robert Baratheon is the only king he has ever seen, he refuses to believe that this is how the Lord Protector of the Realms should behave himself.

What he does not see is Queen Cersei Baratheon.

A sudden break in Myrcella's stride forces his eyes back to the floor, where he takes stock of the pair before him. Standing before them with Sansa at his back, urging him forward, Bran stood terrified on unsteady legs as he shakily held is hand out to the princess. Bumping him harder, nearly toppling the lordling of seven, Sansa becomes more insistent.

"Would you do me the honor, Princess Myrcella?" Bran requests, bowing clumsily despite his reputation as a skilled climber throughout Winterfell.

Beside him, all of the tension that once invaded Myrcella Baratheon instantly fades as she loosens her grip on his forearm, stepping forward as her fingers linger on his sleeve a bit longer and then on his hand, caressing his forefinger softly.

Taking Bran's offered hand and squeezing it within her own small palm, the princess tugs him to the floor as the current song reaches it's peak.

Watching them from the outskirts of the floor, Jon cannot help the chuckle that rises from his throat, especially when looking upon his brother's terrified face.

"The Princess is very bold." Sansa breathes from his side, nearly scaring him from his skin. Turning his head, he takes in the sight of his little sister. "I think she fancies him." She continues, oblivious to the fright she has just given him.

He follows her gaze to the floor, noticing that Bran's fear has all but vacated his face. "Aye." He replies, drinking in the sight of the two children stumbling about the floor, tripping several of the other couples. "They aren't very good, are they?" He continues, causing Sansa to release a light chuckle.

She glares pointedly at him, attempting to stop the fit of giggles bursting from her. "As I recall, you were worse at his age." She admonishes, though it lost most of its bite through her giggling. Holding out her arm, she allows Jon to escort her back to the high table. Though it was a short walk, he was grateful for the small gesture, having not seen much of Sansa since their stay in King's Landing began. While Sansa had been distant, he had seen Bran and Arya frequently, especially at the beginning of their stay, before Arya started her dancing lessons and Bran discovered his fondness for Tommen. At a certain point, the pair had reached an inconvenient level of interest in his activities, especially when his desire was to sneak out to see Cersei.

His eyes flicker to the side as he pulls out Sansa's chair, expecting to land upon the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, instead finding her chair empty. Attempting to cover his concern for his lover, Jon shifts to a broader question. "The tables seem to be emptying, somewhat." He began, looking over and noting the absence of Tommen and Arya as well. "The Queen and Prince Tommen seem to have gone already. As has Arya." True to his expectation, Sansa does not seem to suspect anything.

"I'll try to find her." He lied, squeezing her shoulder once more, before making his way towards the large oaken doors leading out of the feasting hall.

Though he hadn't seen the direction in which Arya had made her escape, he knew she was likely abed or prowling the Red Keep, causing trouble for some washer woman or scullery worker. Either way, his little sister was not at the forefront of his mind as he crosses the threshold leading from the Great Hall.

"You weren't thinking of leaving." A feminine voice call from behind him. Before he can turn to answer, a soft hand takes hold of his wrist, lifting his arm as a mane of golden tussles against his side. Beneath his arm is the woman from the feast, smiling brightly up at him, steering him down a corridor leading away from Maegor's Holdfast. "It's poor manners to leave a feast in your own honor." She continues, falling in step with Jon as her breast deeper into his side, stirring his more carnal nature.

Jon scrambles to think of an excuse, other than bedding the Queen or any other treasonous acts he could think of. "I have never been one for feasts." He responds, deciding that the truth is easier to stick to than a lie. "I was never aloud to attend feasts when lords and ladies were hosted." He explains, hoping that the more dour fragments of his life will sober her, as they ought to.

Defying his expectations, his companion bumps his hip with her own, shrugging his arm from her shoulder to her waist, his hand landing on her backside. "And now you are a squire in King's Landing, and the guest of honor to His Grace himself." She rebuts, placing both hands on his side. "You must behave accordingly." She admonishes, shoving him into a darkened alcove. "I found this place before the tourney." She explains, struggling to untie his breeches in the encroaching darkness. Kissing his neck viciously, she begins to tear at the bindings of his doublet, leaving the ties of his breeches undone. "No one will bother us." She surmises, ripping open his doublet and tunic simultaneously.

On some level, Jon grudgingly commends the level of thought that has been put into her plan. The alcove is situated conveniently for secret rendezvous, tucked into a darkened section of a forgotten corridor. In all of his exploration of the Red Keep, he has likely passed it by no more than once, which is strange seeing as he has been learning all he can about the place.

His admiration of the mysterious woman is cut short, as the golden haired maiden drops to her knees before him, dragging his small clothes and breeches down with her.

"M-my lady." He stammers as her lips tickle the head of his cock. "This is hardly appropriate." He flounders, looking for reasons why he cannot with her what he has done with another. What his body is desperate to do. "You have yet to even give me your name." He gambles weakly, hoping she will take this as a rebuke, for he is unsure of his will to stop.

In the darkness, his vision is somewhat impaired, though he is certain that she is smiling. "All who know me call me Ami." She says, engulfing his manhood into her jaws before he can offer further protest.

Her mouth is warm and wet, and not-at-all displeasing, as she set upon him with ferocity. As she begins to jerk her head along the shaft of his manhood, Jon finds it difficult to form any thought whatsoever, especially in regards to protesting her attentions.

Having never been with a woman other than Cersei, he finds the comparison to be quite unbalanced. While his interactions with the Queen have always been pleasurable, the sensation that Ami elicits is beyond anything that he might have imagined. He becomes lost in her motions, running his hand through her hair, like spun gold.

She tosses her head back and forth along his cock, taking him all the way to his hips, before coming back, licking the slit at his head savagely. After what feels like a lifetime, Ami removes her lips from his cock with an audible smack, before nibbling softly down the underside, creating a strange sensation. Moments later, after nearly bringing him to the edge, she takes him back inside of her jaws, sucking the life from his flesh as she attacks his manhood viciously.

It only takes him a moment to reach his peak. "Ami." He says weakly. "Ami, I've reached my-" he announces as he grips her head, attempting to remove her from his cock before he erupts within her mouth. Oddly enough, his warning only seems to spur her on, causing her to move her head faster as he reaches his peak, spilling within her.

He slumps against the wall, regaining his strength after such a trying ordeal, as Ami rises to her feet, kissing his abdomen and chest softly on her way up. "Did I please you, Jon." She whispers, biting his ear as she strokes his hardened cock. With her other hand, she guides him to her sex, brushing her small clothes aside so that he may feel her heat. She is wet to the touch, almost overflowing as she guides his fingers inside. "I want you to take me." She whispers, switching positions with Jon, so that he is now pinning her to the wall.

He moves forward, placing his head at her entrance. "Please." She whimpers, rubbing her mound against his head, wetting his manhood with her desire. "I want you inside of me." She whimpers, nibbling at his neck.

Jon's breath catches in his throat as he slides within her, fully enjoying the feeling of a woman for the first time in what feels like a lifetime. For a long moment, he merely rests with Ami against the wall, enjoying the tightness of her around him. Hoisting her against the wall sharply, gaining leverage beneath her, Jon can feel her tighten around him as her breasts falling loose of her bodice and falling onto his chest.

As he makes to move once more, continuing their coupling, Ami begins to push at his chest, producing a low muffled sound of displeasure. He instantly pulls out of her, wondering if he might have frightened the poor girl, until a voice from the darkness answers his question.

"Lady Amerei Frey." Lord Varys whispers, announcing his presence to the pair of fornicators. "Several of your brothers have been searching for you." He continues, either unable or unwilling to read the situation, as Amerei stands posted against the wall, scandalized. "As is your dear husband, Ser Pate." He reveals, causing Amerei to squeak, ruffling her clothing in the dim light of Lord Varys' torch, gathering up her dress as she scurries away.

For a long moment, the two men stand in silence as Jon repositions his clothing, lacing his clothing after putting his manhood away. "I tried to stop her." He speaks into the silence, hoping his explanation was not as weak as it sounds.

"Ah yes." Varys replies, with no small measure of sarcasm. "I could see you were putting up quite the valiant fight." He continues, tittering lightly at his own jape, attempting to provoke him. "How were you to overcome such a vicious assault?" He derides further, refusing to relent.

Jon snorts harshly, refusing to rise to the bait, choosing instead to see the humor in it. "You've made your point." He returns.

"Clearly she is quite the formidable opponent." Varys says, continuing his assault, clearly believing he can amuse himself further. "You even had to use the wall to gain leverage." He concludes, bursting into a true fit of laughter, or as true as Jon has seen from him thus far.

"Why have you sought me out tonight." He inquires, ignoring the eunuch's taunts as best he can.

Composing himself, Varys pulls a sheet of parchment from his dagged sleeve. "Despite your protests, I have sent word to your great-uncle on The Wall." He says, raising a hand to stifle the ensuing storm of outrage. "I was discreet. I used no names and made sure to leave out any obvious identifiers." He explains, calming the panic within Jon's chest. "He sent word that I thought you might find interesting." He says, extending the parchment to Jon before slipping into the night once more.

Jon begins his trek to The Tower of the Hand, his quest to see his love all but forgotten.

As he bolts the door behind him, Jon cannot remember how he got to his chambers, or even who he saw on his way there, though he surely encountered someone judging by the large wine skin in his hand that was not there previously.

Pulling up a chair, he begins to read the words of his grandfather's uncle, or great uncle depending on which Aemon he is.

 _Young Nephew,_

 _I truly hope you are all that you claim, as it would bring nothing but joy to my heart; though if what you speak is false, it would be kinder to continue this charade, than to tear away what joy I have left to me._

 _From my perch upon the edge of the Seven Kingdoms, I was forced to watch as mine own kin tore the realms apart, only for his flame and that of his line to be snuffed out, giving rise to another._

 _More than a decade has passed since that day, yet I still wait for the King's Justice to darken my doorstep, uniting me with my long departed kinsman. Fortunately, the long arm of the Iron Throne seems to have overlooked this poor old man; for that reason, I pray that your look favors that of your mother, lending its grace to shelter you from harm._

 _And though I am forbidden from aiding in the wars and politics of the realms, it is certainly not a crime to bestow a gift upon one of the few kinsmen I have left. To right a wrong done to our family, I shall return to you what was foolishly gifted away nearly a century ago._

 _While it is much too heavy to send by raven, I will see that it is put in the proper hands once more. With this, I am entrusting you with our legacy, as I can no longer bear the torch alone._

 _With regards and gratitude,_

 _Maester Aemon of the Nights Watch_

Consumed by the contents of the correspondence from the last of his father's kin residing in Westeros, he fails to notice the trails of tears stumbling down his cheeks until they begin to fall, swelling the ink on the parchment like raindrops, threatening to ruin his only tangible link to his father.

He sets the parchment on the chestnut drawing table, forcing the chair away from the desk as he swipes at his eyes with the sleeves of his tunic, lamenting his weakness.

 _I never knew these people_ , he chastises. _They are only words on paper and names in stories_.

Rising from his seat, Jon steels himself as he shuffles to he corner of the room on unsure feet, taking up a flint and striker, along with a candle.

He returns to his seat and immediately begins to strike the minerals together, bringing to life a small flame, intent on concealing all evidence of his treasonous introduction.

Retrieving the parchment from the surface of the desk, he holds a corner of the letter above the open flame, slowly lowering it onto the crest of the fire. As the edge of the parchment swiftly shifts, turning from tan to black, he finds his resolve waning.

Yanking the parchment from the flame, Jon begins to pace the room, debating his next course of action.

Before his mind has the opportunity to catch up with his movements, he is crouched before the hearth, removing the grate from the blackened alcove. He tugs at the wall deep within the hearth, pulling the hidden door to, revealing a sizable chest which rest comfortably upon a narrow ledge.

Reaching through the small portal, he opens the lid of the chest, revealing the bulk his winnings from the tourney.

He places the letter within the container, sealing the lid on the chest and closing the passageway behind it.


	11. Chapter 11

**THE LIONESS**

Her heart constricts within her chest as she scrutinizes the correspondence once more, agonizing over each word enclosed within her father's missive while sequestered inside her private solar.

As the sun bears down upon the Red Keep, bathing her workspace in an ethereal glow and casting slim shadows from the embellishments nearest to the window, causing the drapery to dance and sway against the floor, Cersei begins to fear for the life of her once lover.

Instinctively, she places the parchment onto her desks and reaches to her belly, feeling the stirring within as the babe begins to rumble in protest of her racing heart. She begins to run her hands over her girth in circular patterns, soothing the pup growing within.

Falling into a rhythm, Cersei continues to massage her middle, alleviating the pressure mounting within her womb and settling into a reverie, humming the words to Two Hearts That Beat as One.

The pounding of a heavy fist rouses her from her sleep. Her hands dart away from her belly, finding purchase on the desk before her as they collide with her goblet, spilling water on her father's dispatch before crashing to the floor with a heavy clang.

Picking the parchment from the table, she frantically begins to wave the demanding letter through the air in an attempt to dry the ink, though she can recite the words by heart at this point.

The door of her solar bursts open, revealing a panic stricken Robert; his eyes darting about the room for possible threats, eventually landing on his Queen.

She imagines that she looks quite foolish, waving the parchment through the air, though if Robert thinks this, he does not say.

For a long moment, the Lord Protector of the Seven Realms merely stands in the shadow of the threshold, staring sheepishly at his wife, his chest rising up and down with the force of his heart. "I was concerned about the babe." He explains, making clear his reason for storming through a lady's private rooms. "I heard the crash." He further elaborates, stepping into her solar. "I wish to have a word with you." He declares, reaching out and taking hold of the chair on the opposing side of her desk.

He sits heavily upon the wooden, high-backed chair, taking a few moments to distribute his weight evenly, before continuing his oration. "How do you feel about Ned's bastard boy?" He questions, stirring her panic once more.

 _How could he possibly know?_ She panics, thinking of the possible ramifications of her treason. _Be calm_ , she reminds herself, secure in her knowledge that Robert is not a thoughtful man, and if he had knowledge of her affairs, she would not be breathing.

"He is a competent swordsman and an excellent jouster, if the tourney is to be any indication." She returns, calmly and objectively. "Has someone raised a complaint about him?" She probes, hoping to gain more insight into the reasoning for their current course of conversation.

Reaching upward with his massive paw, Robert claws at his beard, looking to her desk and locking eyes with the crimson seal of house Lannister, creasing his brow in frustration. "So, you received one as well?" He questions, removing his hand from his chin and sliding it over her desk to take hold of the parchment before her. He scans the document, pronouncing a word aloud from time to time as he devours the verbal onslaught her father has fabricated. "I received a raven much like this earlier this morn." He explains, tossing the parchment back to the desk. "As if I'd punish a man for a slip of his lance during a tourney." He booms. "Especially for slaying your father's lapdog." He shouts once more, laughing raucously at Ser Gregor's misfortune.

Bringing his merriment to heel, Robert smooths his hands down the front of his doublet. "I wished to have your opinion, because there has been a request made to legitimize Lord Stark's bastard boy." He continues his original thought, his face becoming a mask of steel.

It takes her a moment to process the information she has received. "Lord Stark has requested the legitimization of his bastard?" She questions, feeling the crease of her brow as she tries to make sense of his pronouncement. "To what end? He is already squiring for Ser Barristan." She returns, questioning any gains that could be reaped from legitimizing a bastard, especially with so many trueborn sons. "He could easily become a landed knight." She concludes.

It is not as if the offer has not been made. Several lords in attendance at the tourney had expressed interest in employing a man of Jon's abundant skill, going so far as to offer a knighthood and accompanying lands to Lord Stark, though the Hand of the King flatly refused each one.

Leaning forward, breaking Cersei from her thoughts, Robert's eyes seem to glow with a certain amount of mischief. "Have you seen Myrcella recently?" He questions, throwing her mind into disarray.

Thinking back to this very morning, Cersei responds. "She broke her fast with myself and Tommen this morning." She responds with curiosity lacing her voice.

"Ah." He breathes, shifting back into his chair once more. "And, where is she now?" He probes, attempting to contain the smile that is threatening to rip his face in two.

"She is likely in the yard, now." Cersei returns as the agitation begins to build within her, looking at Robert, the cat that ate the mouse. "After breaking her fast, she said she would run an errand before meeting with Tommen in the training yard." She elaborates, deploring the smug grin on Robert's face.

"Of course." He whispers. "The training yard, with Ser Barristan and Tommen and Brandon Stark." He continues, his smile growing wider with each name.

"Yes." She replies curtly.

Reaching into his doublet, he produces a sheet of parchment, holding it aloft near his chest. "Ned didn't ask for his boy to be legitimized." He announces, creating further confusion as he tosses the stack of parchment onto her desk. "Myrcella came to this morning after breaking her fast and presented a plan for further unity between Houses Stark and Baratheon." He explains.

Cersei takes hold of the parchment, unfolding it with bated breath and scanning its contents. Within is an outline of a proposal of a possible betrothal between the princess of the Seven Kingdoms and the bastard of the Hand of the King.

The draft provides sufficient reasoning as to why the match would be appropriate and beneficial. Among the reasons listed, Myrcella is certain to list proven marshal prowess in addition to his reputation with the smallfolk, citing several of the epithets that he has gained since the tourney as well as the words of the continued praise he has received since his victory over The Mountain.

"She put quite a bit of effort into her petition." Robert speaks, drawing her attention to his face, adorned by a proud smile. "It almost breaks my heart to deny her." He continues, leaning forward with his arm outstretched, requesting the parchment once more.

She yields the materials to Robert, contemplating the difference between his current attitude and his established relationship with his family, reflecting that she might have been able to love this Robert. "She must marry within her station." He continues, sighing heavily as he slides the parchment into his doublet once more.

Bracing his hands on her desk, he rises to his feet, swaying a bit with the ravages of age and excessive feasting. "I'll talk to her about it this evening." He says, turning his back to her, taking several steps toward the door, before turning to face her once more. "If Joffrey had half her courage and a fifth of her mind, he would be the greatest king the Seven Kingdoms have ever known." He smiles, turning his back to her once more as he exits her solar, closing the door behind him.

For a long moment, she is left to consider the implications of all that she has learned on this day, absorbing the desires of those closest to her. Her father would see Jon dead for his perceived slight against House Lannister, while Myrcella would see him elevated in an attempt to fulfil some childish fantasy.

"Ser Meryn?" She hails, waiting for the Kingsguard without to answer the call.

The door to her solar glides opens, revealing the knight of Gallowsgrey standing vigil beneath the threshold. "Your Grace?" He responds, moving his hands to his head as he removes his helm, revealing his shock of pumpkin colored whiskers and beard.

Rising from her seat, Cersei makes her way around the large oaken desk before her. "I wish to walk the castle." She explains, exiting her private solar, leaving Ser Meryn to close the door behind her and follow in her wake.

Striding though the corridors of her home, her head held high as she passed the throngs of kids and guardsmen, Cersei allows her mind to wander as the armored boots treading behind alert her to the presence of her retinue. In retrospect, Myrcella's infatuation with Jon is not as outlandish as one might believe, given her daughter's recent behavior.

When the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms expressed a deeper interest in her younger brother's tutelage, none thought to question the recent development, as all of her children began to change since returning from the North. Myrcella has become steadily more outgoing, engaging members of the Stark family, Joffrey becomes increasingly withdrawn with each day, and Tommen, more than any, has become more adventurous, squiring for Jon, despite him being a squire himself.

She had assumed that the recent increase was due to a growing need for the love her sibling, though she sees it now as an attempt to gain access to the object of her infatuation.

While Cersei had been making plans for the further advancement of House Lannister, based on the premise that Myrcella fancies Brandon Stark, as well as Brandon's similarities to his elder brother, Myrcella had been crafting a doctrine of her own, weighing the advantages of a match with the object of her desire. While Cersei could not help her pride as a mother, she cannot stand idly as her daughter attempts to wed herself to a bastard, wasting her political significance as well as bedding her mother's lover.

She is broken from her concerns as she nears the training yard, hearing the commotion within before entering, as the raucous din of merriment permeates the walls nearest to the training yard. Stepping away from the stairs leading down to the yard, Cersei takes her place in the gallery above, helping herself to one of the settees made available for those who would seek the intrigues of mock combat.

Focusing on the scene below, she takes in the image of one man facing three. Moving about the yard, shuffling swiftly, the singular opponent does all that he can to defeat his three assailants, keeping them within his line of sight, corralling them with his pair of short swords. Moving about in his drab armor, his dark hair falling over his face in moist ringlets, the warrior almost seems like a shade.

Suddenly and with the quickness of a sparrow, the dark warrior descends on the man to his left, disarming him with a few quick strikes and knocking him to the dirt, tapping his breast plate with the tip of his sword, before bringing his blades up to defend once more, clashing steel with his remaining opponents.

The crowded area below erupts into a raucous mixture of cheering and jeering as the warrior falls into a slow rhythm once more, shifting his feet slowly in the dirt. He continues his movements, watching and waiting, taunting his enemy as he bides his time, throwing shallow thrusts in an attempt to draw his opponent. Again, just as sudden as before, the shrouded figure surges forward, taking advantage of the positioning of his enemy as they attempt to shift positions to outmaneuver him.

He pounces, attacking the opponent out front, forcing him to take several steps back, tripping and stumble upon his comrade as the encroaching foe delivers a solid kick to his thigh, sending both men to the dirt. Savoring his victory, the shrouded figure saunters forward, twirling his pair of swords about, as the crowds lining the walls lose control of their senses. As the two make to rise, their adversary swiftly taps their breastplates with a tip of either sword.

Dropping to a knee, the dark haired man plants his swords into the soft soil, extending a hand to either man as he says something, too low for her to hear over the raucous din of the spectators. The men grab hold of his offered hands, hoisting themselves from the dirt and collecting their shields from the ground where they had fallen, revealing the golden antlers on blue of House Buckwell, along with the black wings on a white field denoting House Staunton. Two other men step forward, though they have brought no shield with which to identify themselves.

Cersei rises from her place, continuing her journey as she takes the stairs to her side, drifting down towards the practice yard, emerging on the other side of the pale red stone, using the crowd to conceal herself. Near the center of the makeshift arena, a small group of armored men mill about, exchanging handshakes and hard nudges in a show of good faith. Four of the men depart, shouting raucously to the solitary figure left behind and making bawdy gestures, which their opponent returns in kind, though to a lesser degree.

Not noticing that his queen has entered his space, the warrior, now known to her as Jon Snow, begins to navigate through the crowds of onlookers rushing forward to congratulate him on a wonderful spar, treading toward a more isolated section of the practice yard. Stepping from the archway, intent on surprising Jon as well as the children, she is caught off guard when something small collides with her thigh, drawing her attention to the hastening form of Ser Barristan Selmy. Looking down, a shock of blonde hair caresses the length of fabric nearest her upper thigh.

"Hello mother." Tommen muffles into the folds of her gown, clutching her skirts momentarily before falling back in a position ahead of Ser Barristan. "Did you see it?!" He asks, cantering on his heels. "Jon was fighting five people!" He announce, gesturing the number of combatants with both, waving them animatedly.

She makes to open her mouth in response, though her words are stolen at the sound of light armor and boots approaching. "Prince Tommen asked Ser Barristan if a man could fight with two swords." Glancing to her side, she is met with the visage of Jon Snow, drowning in a sea of his own sweat. He steps into a small bow, as more of a formality than anything. "Ser Barristan told him it was foolhard-"

"Which it was." The aged knight returns dryly, taking a step towards his squire, bumping him with his shoulder playfully.

Leaping forward to take hold of Jon's hand, Tommen nearly yanks the elder squire from his feet. "But Jon did it." He shouts, continuously yanking on the hand within his grasp.

Jon seems to consider this for a moment, lifting his hand an consequently his Prince with it. "Though it only worked because they were using swords of a size with mine own." He replies, crouching down slightly and taking Tommen by the shoulders. "If they had maces and axes-"

"Father used a war hammer." Tommen interrupts, bouncing furiously beneath Jon's grip.

A cloud descends upon his face, turning the lighthearted smile upon his to a stone mask. "So he did." He counters, causing Tommen to cease his movement.

The smaller boy reaches upward, grabbing at the corners of Jon's mouth and forcing his smile to return. Pulling back his small hands, leaving the forced smile where he placed it, Tommen turns to her once more, the bounce in his step returning. "Did you come to see me train mother?" He questions, bumping Jon's leg as the elder boy rises to his feet once more. "Ser Barristan says I've gotten better." He informs, looking to the aged knight for affirmation, to which Ser Barristan nods.

"We shall make a fine knight of our prince yet." Selmy concurs, bumping his charges' shoulder and reaching down to ruffle Tommen's hair.

Glancing down at her beautiful boy, Cersei cannot help the smile that stretches her face. "I had hoped to take in a midday meal with my children." She replies, reaching down to pinch his fleshy cheek, drawing another round of giggles.

"Cella was here just now." He announces. Shuffling his feet on the ground, Tommen looks around frantically for several moments, shrugging his shoulders in defeat. "She was here."

"I saw her leave with Ser Arys just a while ago." Jon offers, gesturing to the opposite side of the yard where another archway stood, leading into the main castle. "Seemed to be in a hurry." He amends, raising a quizzical brow towards her.

She attempts to hide her grimace, having wanted an expedient resolution to Myrcella's folly. "Then it shall be just the two of us." Cersei declares, pinching her son's cheeks once more, receiving a childish swat at her hands, lightly rebuking her affections.

Taking her hand in his, Tommen makes to leave the rest of the young warriors behind, waving mournfully to Brandon and Arya Stark, as the two race to the other side of the practice yard. His eyes drift to Ser Barristan, as he makes to follow behind their procession to Maegor's Holdfast, then to Jon, collecting all of their discarded training gear. Jerking against her hold, Tommen reaches back for the bastard of the Hand. "Can Jon come with us?" He questions, breaking his hold on his mother's hand as he rushes to take Jon's, forcing him to drop the training materials within his grasp.

"Well I'm sure Jon has-"

"I don't think it would be proper to-"

"Please!" He begs, cutting of their vehement protests to the contrary. "At least to the bridge?" He continues, increasing the frown on his face, making it nearly impossible to deny him. I've always had a weakness for my children.

"Alas, I cannot." Jon groans, taking a knee once more and taking ahold of Tommen's shoulders. "I also have duties to attend. But I promise that I will make time to see you before evenfall." He vows, removing his right hand, holding it aloft between himself and her son, glancing to her for just a moment before settling his eyes back on Tommen.

"Alright." Tommen replies, taking the offered hand, grasping the three forefingers in his smaller clutch. He releases Jon's hand, his fingers lingering on the uppermost digit as he shuffles slowly into the folds of her skirts.

Jon smiles softly towards the pair of them, waving slightly before taking off in the opposite direction, picking the discarded tourney equipment from the ground and chasing after his younger siblings, his thickening dark tresses swaying in his wake.


	12. What You Won't Do for Love

**THE GIANT SLAYER**

 _No good can possibly come of this_ , he contemplates, finding his composure difficult to maintain.

Continuing on his course, Jon maintains his distance as he follows Ser Barristan to his destination, attempting to avoid the onslaught of questions that would only beget an onslaught of lies.

"Her Grace chambers are just a bit further." Ser Barristan says, glancing over his shoulder to ensure that his charge had understood him.

He nods, confirming that his words were heard, not bothering to mention that he had been to those chambers before. _And I will once more_ , he ponders, formulating their next encounter with meticulous detail.

So focused on his musings- piecing together the mechanics and logistics of his plan- he fails to realize that the White Knight has come to a full stop, colliding with the heavily armored man before tumbling to the floor.

Immediately abandoning all other thoughts, he instead decides to focus on Ser Barristan, expecting to find a look of agitation or annoyance; apparent on the knight's well-weathered face is understanding and empathy. He extends a hand to the sprawled form of the youth before him, hauling him to his feet before clapping him on the back with a heavy mailed hand. "It's understandable to feel out of sorts in the presence of royalty." He whispers, clutching Jon closely before the door to Cersei's chambers, releasing him moments later. While it takes considerable authority over his emotions to prevent the scoff that threatens to rise from his chest, Jon keeps his composure. "But I can guarantee that you have been through worse." Ser Barristan concludes, not knowing how correct his assertion truly is.

 _Perhaps he does know_ , he considers, recalling the conversation he had overheard, between Ser Barristan and _Lord Stark_.

Before he can delve much deeper into this line of thought, Ser Barristan delivers two firm knocks to the door before stepping away _._

After a short juncture- during which, Jon constantly fidgeted with his fine clothing, taking a break only to run his hands though his unruly hair- the door's hinges groan weakly, exposing a serving woman draped in faded Lannister Crimson.

She offers them a timid smile before stepping aside, allowing them entry into the spacious chamber. As they pass, he turns his head, nodding his acknowledgement. As his eyes linger on her, he cannot help but acknowledge the blush creeping up her neck.

As if feeling his lingering gaze, her eyes snap to her feet, refusing to travel upward again.

In advance of any thoughts he might have on the subject, a firm hand takes hold of his shoulder, leading him toward the large table in the center of the room. "Give the boy a fancy name and some gold, and it goes to his head." See Barristan says, nudging him softly.

Though he cannot see his face, as his regard has converged on something much more marvelous, he can clearly hear the grin behind his words.

He elbows Ser Barristan gently, rapping his bone against the sturdy plate armor, producing a husky laugh from the older man. "How dare you strike an ordained knight?" He says, not quite attaining the stern tone that he was aiming for. "I shall deny you your knighthood on principal, now." He continues his charade, chuckling near the end.

Jon turns to him, shifting his focus from the table, where the Queen and Prince Tommen speak in hushed tones. "You jest?" He replies, tapping the center of the immaculate enameled armor. "Your armor is still finer than any I own." He jests, accepting the incredulous expression from Ser Barristan.

Both of them knew that this was false, seeing as Ser Barristan had trained him and was there to witness his victories over the likes of Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Loras Tyrell. He had also told him that their pride would not allow them to purchase back their armor.

Before either of them can rebuff the seemingly absurd notion, fate intervenes in the form of a fledgling fawn.

"Jon!" Tommen yells from somewhere to his side, having seemingly appeared from the other side of the table. Attempting to locate the young princeling, Jon turns his head at the last moment, barely avoiding a grievous collision as Tommen clashes with his upper thigh, embracing his leg as tightly as his little limbs can manage. "Mother promised to invite you to eat with us before you leave," He says, kneading his face against Jon's leg, refusing to let him go. "But you're leaving tomorrow." He whines, lifting his face to stare into Jon's eyes with the one of the most darling frown he had ever seen.

Reluctantly, he reaches down, ruffling Tommen's hair affectionately- allowing the oddly paternal gesture. "I have to go." He replies, continually keeping contact with the small, golden haired boy. "My father will no longer be hand," He sighs, attempting to explain the circumstances in terms that a boy barely older than a toddler would understand.

"If he truly wished to stay," A familiar voice responds, articulating her reproach with an unfamiliar inflection. Something akin to contempt. "It could easily be done." Cersei concludes, gouging holes into his eyes with her own, her emeralds smoldering like molten steel. "All he need do is ask."

He releases his hold on Tommen's hair, guiding him toward the table where his mother and sister sit, unmoving. "It would be seen as a disservice to Lord Stark, in return for his kindness." He replies. "I have my honor."

For what seems like an eternity, he and Cersei stare each other down, both silently imploring the other to see reason.

The door opens behind him, breaking the tension in the room long enough for him to discern the identity of the interloper. Entering the chamber are several women, hoisting several platters filled with indescribable amounts of refreshments; cakes and tarts, meats and fruits, along with receptacles of sloshing liquids.

A light tugging at his fingers draws his attention toward an insistent Tommen, doing his very best to drag a man who is- by a conservative estimate- thrice his size.

He takes mercy on the princeling, following him to his assigned place setting, with Tommen and Myrcella on either side of him and Cersei directly across from him.

All about them, the serving women begin their task, filling a nearby table with an their array of platters; as one, they each take hold of a singular dish, parading their fare before the gathered monarchy, depositing their possessions when demanded.

After a single pass, Jon glances toward his plate, finding it piled high with meat and fruit and bread. Taking hold of his dining utensils, he prepares to devour the meal before him, spearing one of the thinner slices of boar's meat in anticipation.

"Are you to return to the North?" A timid voice inquires, drawing his focus to Princess Myrcella.

He cranes his neck, staring into her eyes for the briefest of moments before the princess averts her gaze, suddenly finding the meal before her of greater import. "What I mean to say is," She whispers, her gaze still concentrated on her meal.

Before the princess can continue, Cersei's fingers are upon her chin, lifting her head. "Never hang your head when speaking," She says, grasping her daughter's chin gently before giving it a slight shake. "especially to those of lower birth." She revises, her gaze flickering to him momentarily, gauging his reaction.

He would not rise to her provocations. Before making the decision to accept her invitation, Jon steeled himself for the possible ramifications of his decision.

He instead turns to address Princess Myrcella once more. "I understand." He says, intent on avoiding another awkward address for the poor girl. "Truly, I do not know." He replies, have no knowledge of Lord Stark's designs for him. "The North has few enough knights as it is, and there are few tourneys to be found there."

While both of those were valid concerns, neither was the true reason for his reticence to return North. What truly gave him pause was the idea of returning to Winterfell, where Lady Stark was free to torment him as she saw fit, with little to nothing that he could say to object without offending someone far beyond his station. _It would be best to send me to someone in the vale_ , he muses. _Or perhaps the Stormlands_.

"Your father was well liked in the Vale." Ser Barristan opines from behind Queen Cersei. "You may thrive there as well."

The two lock eyes for a moment, cementing the reality that his private thoughts were not mere thoughts. "Yes." He returns curtly, eager to change the topic of the conversation.

"When will you be back?" Tommen asks, his voice nearly a shout within the uncomfortable silence.

He sighs. "I do not know?" He responds. "It is not my choice."

"You could stay here!" He replies, raising his voice slightly, competing with himself. "I can make you a knight!" He continues, having clearly registered nothing of the conversation thus far. He turns to his mother, his face twisted in confusion. "Can't I?"

"Not as you are now." She answers, dashing the boy's hopes. "Though you could demand it of a knight in your service." She continues, restoring the grin to Tommen's face.

The portly little prince points a finger toward Ser Barristan. "You could do it." He says, causing the aged knight to release a laborious sigh.

"I could." Ser Barristan says simply, though Jon can tell that there is more left unsaid.

After more than two moons together, the knight and his squire had discovered a greater understanding of one another; listening to him now, he could hear the underlying disappointment in his tone.

He wonders if Ser Barristan can read the wistful energy in his posture; he wonders how much of the desperation for validation of his existence Ser Barristan can see. "I would not ask Ser Barristan to knight me for such a reason." He decides, taking all in attendance unawares- being knighted by Ser Barristan Selmy publicly would be a great boon to any who wished to gain notoriety. "It would be a disservice to the Ser Barristan as well as myself." He explains, taking up his fork, still spearing the lukewarm boar slice on his plate. "I must earn my spurs on my own merit." He concludes, taking a bite of his boar, silently bringing their conversation to a close.

For the remainder of their meal their party dines in relative silence, save the occasional outburst of inquisitive vehemence from Tommen, breaking the calm with each new thought:

 _"When will you be back?"_ he asks, to which Jon replies simply, _"_ _Whenever I receive my knighthood."_

Another few bites pass in silence, before the next question arrives. _"_ _Will you come for my nameday?"_ he asks, and again Jon answers honestly, _"I cannot say. The world is an uncertain place."_

Secure in the notion that Tommen has no further questions after several moments of silence, he returns his attention to his own platter, finding the cool contents less than appealing. Taking hold of an overly-oblong pear, he impassively nibbles upon the strange fruit, awaiting the appropriate excuse to take his leave.

His wait is not overly long.

No sooner does the Prince finish his meal, than he is bounding from his settee with a decisive leap. He hastens round the table as quickly as he can, taking hold of Jon's hand as they flee from the scene.

He stumbles slightly, having been taken by surprise by the small lump of energy forcing him onward as he tries to keep up.

"May we be excused, mother?" Tommen questions, though his stride toward the door does not break as he awaits her answer.

"You would do well to remember that you have lessons today." Cersei reminds her youngest legitimate child, exerting as much authority as she can, willing him to turn toward her once more.

Releasing a boyish groan, reminiscent of something that Robb might have done at this age, Tommen turns to face his mother. "But Jon is leaving on the morrow." He whines, tugging at his captive's arm as he squirms toward the floor. "My lessons will be here until I _die!_ " He stresses, flinging himself to the floor, hanging onto Jon's hand as though it were a tether to this life, forcing him to hoist the pouty Prince back to his feet.

An audible chuckle resonates from one of the less populous corners of the room, drawing the attention of those occupying the rest of the space- as well as the ire of Her Grace.

Taking not of the unwanted attention, the Lord Commander straightens his posture, once again donning the mask of the silent of the silent observer, allowing Jon's attention to naturally shift to Cersei once more as he lifts Tommen from the salmon colored floor.

Considering the pair for a moment, she opens her mouth once more having made her decision. "Eat your fill before your lessons. Your septa will be awaiting you." She breathes, offering no invitation for discussion.

He hangs his head. "Yes mother." Tommen returns despondently, releasing Jon's hand as he sluggishly drifts towards his seat, taking his place beside his mother once more.

Having quelled the young Prince's minor act of rebellion, Queen Cersei returns her attention to the squire beneath the archway of her private solar, a questioning expression taking residence upon her brow.

Uncertain of her intentions, he merely stands beneath the archway awaiting an explanation.

Catching sight of a shimmering object beyond the royal family, his attention is brought to Ser Barristan, who proceeds to place a hand upon the lower torso of his armor and dips his head slightly, reminding Jon of his courtesies.

Dipping into a shallow bow, he stares forward, drawing the Queen's emerald eyes toward his own. "By your leave, Your Grace." He questions, his voice barely above a whisper.

A stiff nod of her head is his only answer.

With his back straight once more, he slowly backs away, finding his way through the door once more as it swings closed before him.

Inclining his head to either side of the door, offering a gesture of respect to the white knight manning the entrance to the Queen's apartments, Jon turns on his heel, rambling briskly through the corridor before rounding a corner as though nothing were amiss.

Slowing his stride, he observes his surroundings, finding the passageway bare before him.

 _Likely due to the gathering of nobility within the Queen's Chambers,_ Jon reasons, placing his hand upon a door at his side, shoving it inward.

Slipping inside, gingerly closing the heavy timber door behind him, he finds the vast chamber conveniently devoid of life. Ambling toward the pair of large wooden framed glass doors, he silently takes stock of the belongings within, noting the piles of books strewn about, deducing the keeper of the enormous space- highly doubting that King Robert or Joffrey were very well read, or that Tommen could decipher books of this magnitude at his age.

Coming upon a small drawing table near the egress toward the balcony, he finds a rather large tome, its binding well worn from constant use.

Picking the book from the table, he studies the cracked, leather-bound cover, finding its contents more than passing strange. _"The Foundations of the Seven Kingdoms- Dynastic Marriages of the Great Houses of Westeros."_ He whispers, skimming through the sizable text, contemplating the possible purpose that this book might serve a child of Princess Myrcella's standing and age.

Attributing this to the youthful folly of a princess- much like Sansa, with her knights and tourneys- he returns the time to its perch, stepping to the pair of opposing doors, pulling them within as he makes his way to the shallow balcony overlooking the dry moat below.

Wasting little time, for fear that he might be discovered, he pulls the doors shut behind him before stepping toward a section of the heavy stone balustrade, tucked into the corner of the balcony, lifting himself onto the railing as he launches himself onto the roof of Maegor's Holdfast, fighting the undue burden being placed on his torso.

Having taken a moment to collect himself, he creeps along the rooftop, stealthily making his way to the portion of the structure which should correspond with the Queen's bedchamber below.

Fearing the shadow that might be cast by the waning sun, he maintains his distance from the edge, choosing instead a spot further up the incline.

Having found his perch, Jon carefully removes his grey direwolf cloak- folding it once, then twice, then thrice over- fashioning a makeshift pillow and laying it upon an area of exposed tar.

The incline is merciful as he falls to his knees, colliding softly with the warm surface before rolling to his back to gaze lazily upon the cloudless sky.

He hasn't been there long when a cast of hawks flies above, catching his eye, and his envy. Reaching out to the considerable gathering of predators above, he singles out one of their number, closing his eyes to the sky above, allowing himself to drift.

It was raining when he woke.

He'd known before his eyes had opened, feeling the kiss of each droplet upon his brow.

As he opens his eyes, the water trickling from his crown seeps through his lashes, clouding his vision. In that brief moment, obscured by sleep and rain, the city beyond the Red Keep seems almost serene- a silhouette of the purest black, stippled with little yellow lights, beneath a sky of dense, heavy grey.

It was a far cry from what he'd seen by the light of day. Even as his eyes clear, the foulness that seemed to coat everything and everyone within the city below was nowhere to be seen, cloaked by shadows and darkness.

He smooths his hair from his face, glancing down at his tunic and breeches. His clothes were mercifully dry for the most part, though they were not like to stay that way, given the worsening conditions around him.

 _It'll be pouring soon,_ he reminds himself, sliding swiftly to the edge of the roof.

It happened so quickly, he barely had the time to panic. One moment he was gliding along the damp, weathered tar of the roof, the next, he was plummeting from the edged.

Colliding roughly with the damp stone below, he felt a sharp spasm in his ankle, addling his mind. Through the pain, a small voice reminded him to keep his tongue, lest he be discovered and skewered.

Limping along the wet balcony, crouching as low as his leg might allow, he reaches the Queen's Chambers, finding the door slightly ajar.

Nudging the door, the entryway widens just enough for a man of his size to slip through.

The room is dark. Too dark to truly distinguish between the separate articles of furniture by sight, though not so much as to shroud the figure lying upon the bed.

Light of foot, he slowly makes his way to the bed, slipping his feet from his boots as he goes, feeling the cool stone floor against his toes.

"The roof?" A subtle whisper breaks through the gloom. Before he is able to react, the lying form upon the bed takes an upright position, turning her head in his direction. "I'd wondered where you'd gone." Her voice was fresh and well rested; not at all hoarse with sleep like he'd expected.

She knew, he concludes, smiling to smiling despite himself.

Running a hand through golden mane, now dull as dusted straw in the dimness of the darkened chamber, she recedes further into the large featherbed.

Accepting her silent offer, he continues on his path, no longer bothering to conceal his footfalls. "How did you know I would come to you?" He questions, his voice barely above her own whisper.

Seating himself at the edge of her bed, he slowly rolls the damp tunic over his head, patiently awaiting an answer to his question. Tossing aside the discarded garment, he lurches onto his side, finding himself face to face with his love. She'd obviously resumed her place while he was divesting himself of his clothing.

"An educated guess." Is her reply. "Tommen returned from his lessons, with your brother of course, in search of a certain neglectful squire."

Before he could protest her characterization of him, the words continued to tumble forth. "If Ser Mandon is to be believed, they had asked nearly half the castle by the time they reached my chambers." She said, reaching to brush the skin of his belly with the tips of her fingers. "But none had seen you.

"Once Ser Barristan told them that he hadn't seen you, they conceded their defeat." Through the darkness, he could see the shrug of her shoulders against the bed. "I assumed you might be lying in wait to seek me out in the dead of night, like before. If wrong, I'd miss a single night of sleep for my troubles."

He found it oddly alluring the way her mind worked; the way she could bring several seemingly unrelated thing together to craft a more fitting story.

Shuffling further into the bed, he wraps an arm about her middle, encircling her body with his own. "Surely you did not come to cuddle me to sleep?" She mocks, gingerly scraping her fingernails along his skin in warning.

Releasing his breath through his nose, he takes her hand in his. "I had to see you once more." He confesses, kissing the flesh of her knuckle. "I needed to know your feelings before I left. You seemed upset with me during our meal."

She returned his sigh. "I told you, we must keep appearances. It would do us no good to show such familiarity before so many. And, Tommen is quite taken with you.

"He wishes to be your squire when you are knighted. I wish to spare him the pain of your departure if I can."

"I will return." He replies anxiously. "The moment I've earned my spurs, I shall come for you both." He whispers, sliding closer. "I shall take Prince Tommen and raise him up to be a true knight, like Aemon the Dragon Knight, or Ser Barristan Selmy."

If she had any thoughts on the matter, she did not share them. Running a hand along the skin of his arm, she slowly makes her way to his cheek, stroking the bone with the pad of her thumb. "Such a comely young man." She whispers into his lips. "You have your father's color, but this," She continues, tracing the outline of his jaw. "This must have come from your mother."

Uncomfortable with their current topic of discussion, he takes hold of the fringes of her gown. "No." She hisses, taking his wrists in hand. "Leave it."

He doesn't argue. Instead, he reaches beneath shift, finding the valley of her sex unimpeded and wet with desire. Wiping away the proof of her desire, he eases his queen onto her back before depositing himself between her thighs, caressing her neck tenderly with his lips. "What would you have of me, my queen?" He breathes, brushing his lips against the groove of her cheek, where jaw meets ear.

For a long moment there is no reply, save for the soft sigh of her breath in his ear and the rustling of her mound, pushing against his breeches. "Worship me." Was her breathless reply.

He needed no further urging.

Straightening his back, he unfastens the ties of his breeches, slipping them down his thighs as he scuttles between her legs once more, positioning his hand at her entrance. One hand gripping her thigh, he presses his palm to her mound, fumbling in the darkness for the little pearl of flesh that will bring about her pleasure.

The subtle tremor in her thigh confirms that he has found the right place.

In a practiced motion, he slides his fingers between her folds, moving them in tandem with the roll of him palm upon her pearl. It was something his love had taught him.

When first he'd failed to truly please her with his hand, Cersei seemed amused, if not mildly annoyed, at his inexperience. _"When you put your fingers inside of me, you want to curl them, as if you were beckoning me forward."_ She'd said, guiding his hand.

At the time, he'd followed her instructions, amazed at how easily he could bring a woman to her peak. During the passing moon between Winterfell and Darry, he'd employed different positions with his fingers and palms, hoping to make something _more_ of what she'd shown him.

Her current elation is the product of his labor. As his fingers twitch back and forth inside of her, teasing the place that would bring her pleasure, the thumb of the same hand absently massaged the flesh of her pearl.

Before long she'd reached her peak; coating his hand jin her desire as her thighs shudder and jerk about him.

She reaches for him, barely scraping his stomach with the tips of her fingers. "Jon." She whispers hoarsely, her voice thick with contentment.

She needs not say more.

He takes himself in hand, reveling in the warmth of her arousal upon his manhood as he positions the tip against her slick folds. From the hitch of her breath, she needs no further preparation. Even so, he slips the head of his cock along her folds, forcing her back to arch. "I will call for Ser Meryn if you do not hurry!" She hisses, fumbling about in the darkness for his manhood.

He cannot help the rough chuckle that escapes his throat. "Yes, your grace." He whispers, slipping beyond her lips for the first time in moons.

The sensation is just as he remembers; like a warm, moist hand taking hold of his being. A ragged breath escapes his lips as the root of his manhood presses against her pearl, sending a shiver through her thighs. Tightening his grip on her thighs, he stills inside of her, content to enjoy the depths of her sex for a while longer.

Impatient as always, his love recedes as far as the feathered bed below will allow, before slamming her sex into him, bucking and writhing like a mare in heat.

Shoving his hips down upon her in kind, he traps her beneath him. "Let me share this night with you." He whispers hoarsely, grinding his hips against her own as he leaned forward to steal a kiss.

When first they had met, Cersei had stood above him by little more than an inch; now, standing shoulder to shoulder, he stood slightly less than an inch above her.

His growth seemed to be for naught, for the swell of her belly kept him at bay, confining his ministrations to her neck. Pressing his lips to the exposed flesh, just above her left breast, Jon begins to nibble upon the skin there; not hard enough to leave a mark, but just enough to draw a response.

Keeping his position, he quickened his pace, crashing into her thighs with a greater urgency than ever before. Before long, the familiar tug in the flesh of his lower stomach warns him of his impending release.

From the grip of her sex around his cock, it is obvious that her release is no further than his own. _Perhaps she is closer_ , he muses, slowing his pace to an agonizing crawl.

Taking his hand from her thigh, he slips it between them to tickle her pearl. Between the depth of his stroke and the gentle graze of his fingers, it is only seconds before the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms comes undone beneath him.

Lifting her shoulders from the bed, she bites into his neck savagely, muffling her cries of jubilation. Wrapping his unoccupied arm about her shoulders, he pulls her closer as the pair weather their release together, biting into his hand to quiet his groans of ecstasy.

His seed came forth like lightning, scorching the halls of her womanhood like the remnants of the _Broken Tower_ of his youth, leaving him spent.

Curiously, his release did little to sate his lust. If anything, lying with her after weeks of shunning her affections seemed to awaken something within him. Where he'd expected to find solace between her thighs, he instead found a primal force, raging against its confinement.

Receding from the space her thighs, he grasps the inner curve of her knee, guiding her to kneel on her hands and knees. Reaching out to either side, he pulls and tugs at the covering of the bed, pooling blankets and sheets and pillows beneath her belly.

She lets out a small sound that might have been a laugh; though with her face turned from him, he cannot tell. He ignores it.

Taking hold of his manhood once more, hardened by the sight of her backside, he shuffles forward on his knees. As the flesh of her thighs and extremities press against his hips, he guides his head along her folds, slowly stoking the tip of his cock against her pearl, delivering waves of shivers through her spine with each pass.

Wrapping his unoccupied hand around her left thigh, he holds her steady, bringing his head to her opening of her sex.

He sinks inside of her with reckless abandon, delighting in the pressure of her velvet folds enclosing around him. There is a sameness to it; this sensation he feels. Mcuh like moments ago, there is a tightness that exists inside of her; a hunger threatening to engulf him if he is not wary. But unlike before, there is a strange openness to her.

With each thrust, his hips bottom out against her mound, searching for that thing. That thing that separates this coupling from the last, or the one before.

As his pace quickens, he can feel the muscles in her thighs and hips grow taut, anticipating each stroke.

He loves it. He loves that they fit so well together. He loves that she knows the rhythm of his strokes. He loves the feeling of her warm, velvet fist gripping his cock between her thighs. He is almost certain that he loves her.

He banishes those thoughts, tightening his grip on her hips as he slams into her arse with significantly greater force than before, holding her to him.

She releases a stifled moan, letting her head fall to the mattress.

Curling himself around her back, he lays a trail of kisses along her spine, whispering words of affection as his hands wander the expanse of her skin. Pressing his arm into the valley between her breasts, he pulls her bacloser to his chest, straightening his back, and hers by extension.

As he continues his motion, his strokes curtailed by the closeness of their bodies, he allows his other hand to slide between the valley of her thighs. For a moment, both hands fumble about her body, seeking out her sensitive places in hopes of bringing her to her knees- in a figurative sense.

He finds her nipple first, pressing his thumb to the hard blosom upon her bosom, kneading it against the pad of his finger as he finally reaches her pearl. Simultaneously teasing her most sensitive spots, he can feel her coming undone around him.

Her body grows limp in his arms as she reaches her peak for the second time this evening, just moments after his own.

Gently, he eases her onto her side, laying her in the center of the vast featherbed, watching as the waves of residual pleasures of their coupling roll over her.

He proceeds to take her thrice more before dawn; each time bringing her greater pleasures than the last, etching the memories of this night deep inside of her.

He is still inside of her, softening by the second, when the first sighs of dawn reach the castle walls. He helps her straighten her gown, having ruffled her shift during their coupling, before haphazardly dressing himself for his departure.

He leaves the way he came, shambling onto the roof of Maegor's Holdfast whence he came. Once there, he crept into the mind of one of his servants, finding the pathway before Prince Tommen's door unguarded. He discounts the roof silently, padding along the balcony and creeping through the Prince's chambers.

In the servants corridors below, where stewards and grooms have already started their day, he borrows a jerkin with the crowned stag of House Baratheon of King's Landing before heading to the bridge.

To his fortune, it was Ser Boros Blount that stood guard. As he slipped by, the rotund knight payed him no mind, in his worn breeches and black Baratheon garments.

As he made his way back to the Hand's Tower, presumably to finish packing his things, he thought of the things he would miss. In truth, there were very few.

He would miss his lessons with Ser Barristan, and his spars with the other Crownland squires. He would miss Prince Tommen and unceasing admiration. Most of all, his heart would yearn for his queen- though she thought him naive, and had told him to his face more than once.

She'd sworn that he'd become an illustrious tourney knight, winning purses and bedding fair daughters of lesser lords.

Such thoughts fade quickly enough as the entrance of the tower comes into view. Huddled tightly around the entrance to the Tower of the Hand, clutching the grips of their swords, a heavy tension is visible on each of their faces.

"What's happened?" He questions, glancing from face to face, hoping to find one that he remembers well.

He does.

As the guards part for their commander, he realizes with a start that the man before him is someone he has known since his youth. "Jory?" He questions, unsure if the man beneath the blood and scars is truly the captain of his father's guards.

He hobbles forth, taking hold of the breast of Jon's borrowed jerkin, pulling him forward. "What in the hells are you-" He breaks off, shaking his head. "More importantly, where very been?" He questions, ushering him through the blockade.

As they ascend the staircase, it quickly becomes apparent that Jory cannot make it under his own power. He stops, turning back to stare at the man. "I can find my way." He offers.

Jory nods, blowing a droplet of sweat from his lips before turning to descend the staircase once more, looking all the more relieved for it.

From Jory's state, he rightly assumes that something has happened with his father. This becomes all too apparent as he steps through the open door of the Hand's Chambers, immediately detecting the scent of blood.

Around the bed, his siblings kneel to either side of their father, displaying differing emotions. While Sansa and Bran do little to hold back their tears, heaving great sobs into their father's bedding, drenching the linens in salty tears, Arya silently grips his hand, glaring fiercely at no one in particular.

"What happened?" He questions, drawing everyone's attention from his bedridden father. The sound of male clinking and shifting alerts him to the presence of someone else in the room.

Tucked away in the corner, and pair of men make their way toward the door to stand before him. While both were hearty men with broad shoulders, the elder of the two was obviously taller, standing nearly a head above Jon. "Lannisters."


	13. The Game of Love

**THE LIONESS**

She was fighting a losing battle.

She'd known as much before she had entered Robert's solar. While slow witted and susceptible to subtle manipulation, her lord husband had always exhibited an unwavering resilience to the opinions of others once his mind had been made; and made it was. "Do you think me another Aerys Targaryen?" He huffed, flexing his massive paw over silk covering his expansive girth.

This was not the first time he had mentioned the _Mad King_ , or his many atrocities, this morning. "The Kingsguard is meant to do the King's work; not their own!" He continued, cutting off any protest she might wish to raise.

"He kidnapped the King's own-"

Suddenly, the anger that he'd kept carefully bridled over these past months seems to spew from every pore, amassing beneath his fist as it collides with the wide, oaken desk. "He did nothing." He bellows, rising from his seat to tower over her. "It was his elder brother who took the Imp, not him."

"House Corbray took possession of the King's good-brother-"

" _Lyn_ Corbray!" He interrupts. "Lyonel Corbray lacks the spine to insult _The Great Lord Tywin_. Lyn was always the boldest of their lot. Like as not, he took your brother to the Eyrie to curry favor with Lysa." He sighs, combing his fingers through the coarse black hair of his chin. It was no secret that Lysa Arryn blamed House Lannister for the death of her husband; on her flight from the city, she told anyone who would listen. "I've sent letters to both the Eyrie and Heart's Home, demanding the return of Tyrion and the presence of the Corbray shit.

"I should have listened to Ned after he killed old Aerys." He fumes, lumbering across the room, taking hold of a pitcher of wine as he was wont to do in times of crisis. "Should've sent him to the Wall to freeze his balls off, but Jon- may the gods grant him peace- cautioned against it. Said it would be a slight against old Lord Tywin." He chuckles harshly, tipping the spout toward his chalice, hesitating slightly as the crimson liquor fills his cup. Setting the pitcher aside, he makes his way back to his seat, placing his cup between them.

Half full, she notices. In truth, the cup is a bit above the halfway point, though his restraint is more than passing queer. "Ser Lucas was under Yohn's protection at the time," He continues, grunting laboriously as he takes his seat once more. "Had he brought the lad to me, we could have been done with it. Instead, he murdered half of Royce's escort, two of the Hand's own men-"

"The former Hand!" She returns, breaking to momentum of his condemnation. "Lord Stark had-"

His palm collides with the table once more, tipping the newly replenished chalice, emptying it's contents upon the oaken surface of the desk, staining it in dark red like an ocean of blood. "I will not be interrupted!" He growls, brandishing a stout finger towards her chest. "I will say my piece, and then- _and_ _only then-_ will I allow you to speak." Is his last warning. It had been years since she'd seen that stare. It was the same look he'd had when Balon Greyjoy declared his independence; when word came of the surviving Targaryen prince and princess in the east. The look of barely contained fury.

She gestures for him to continue, infuriating him further- though he would not give voice to such a petty slight.

"If the matter had been brought to me, it could have been handled with words." He grumbles, opening and closing his fist absently. "I damn near grew up there; I know the people. I could've reached out to Lord Lyonel- told him to bring his brother to heel."

With the thumb and forefingers of his sword hand, he grips the bridge of his nose. "We're beyond that now." He breathes. "The Kingslayer will take the black, or he'll hang!" He declares, motioning toward her with an open palm- her invitation to speak.

"So, Jaime is to be punished for seeking justice? It was a Corbray who took our brother hostage, so he endeavored to take a Corbray in exchange. It is the way of the world." She returns.

"And what of the men he killed to get to him?" He glowers, leaning closer, resting his weight upon his arm. "What of Ned's men, or Yohn's men? What of Renly's men?"

In truth, she doubts that the deaths of Renly's men bother Robert as much as the humiliation of having his countrymen attacked by his own Kingsguard.

When the news had first been brought to them, Robert had seemed more concerned with the safety of his childhood friend than the fact that Renly himself had been endangered by the clash, attempting to defuse the tension between the two parties. Renly was little more than a convenient excuse.

A heavy knock at the door behind her releases her from the obligation of answering his inquiries.

"What is it?" Robert answered, rising to his feet once more.

It was Ser Meryn who entered, followed closely by a member of the Stark household, if the emblem displayed prominently on his chest was to be believed. "Your grace," He bowed deeply at the waist, only for Robert to wave his courtesies aside. "you left orders for to be informed when Lord Stark awakes."

"Yes." Is Roberts reply as he makes his way around his drawing table. "Of course. I'll receive him in my solar." He decrees, turning to face her once more, opening his mouth to speak.

"Lord Stark has requested that you come to him, given his injuries." The man interrupts, dipping his head in submission. "Your grace."

Looking pleasantly abashed, Robert begins to nod slowly. "Of course. I shall go to him, in his sick room." He supplies, stepping forward to follow the wiry wisp of a man.

Hand on her belly, she makes to rise, intending to accompany their party to the Hand's Tower. A massive hand on her shoulder impedes her advance. "I think it best I go alone; allow calmer heads a chance to prevail." Robert says, pressing her firmly against her settee. It was a hollow sentiment, given the litany of words she might call to mind to describe him- none of them being calm- but she gives no voice to her private thoughts. "Ser Preston will take you to your chambers. With your condition, I wonder if the strain might be too much."

She scoffed. "I am no simpering child, _Your Grace_. I've delivered three healthy children for you. This on shall be no different." She lied.

None of her children were _for him_ , in truth. But it mattered little. The world would believe what she wanted it to, and she would let them, if it meant keeping her children safe.

"I intend to see to it." He whispers gruffly, removing his hand from her shoulder and presenting it to her.

Taking the offered hand and the accompanying strength, Cersei rose from her seat, making her way to the door where Ser Preston awaited her, ushering her through with an outstretched hand.

The corridor nearing her chambers were nearly bare—with most of the servants seeing to the children or the swiftly approaching midday meal—leaving the journey to her rooms fortuitously uneventful; there was much to think on, and she was in no mood to suffer fools.

Opening the door to her chambers, she found the space mercifully empty as she made her way to her private bedchamber.

Rounding on her white shadow, she watched as he came to a halt. "I think I can find my way from hear." She affirmed, offering a venomous smile.

For his part, the little man merely returned her smile, exiting her outer chambers without a sound- aside from the clamor of his mail.

Making her way across the stone floor—tension flowing from her body with each step—she makes her way to a large, crimson divan, peeling her feet from her slippers as she went. Her descent was ungraceful, but she cared not. She needed to think.

 _Damn you Tyrion,_ she seethed silently, sending a silent prayer to the Stranger to take the _demon_ from this world. Were it not for the imp, her brother would be where he should be- where he always should've been.

Bringing her eyes to a close, Cersei breathed deeply through her nose. _Such stress isn't good for the baby,_ she chided. Pycelle had said as much when last they spoke, while extracting a vow to steer clear of spirits during her pregnancy.

At times—when those around her bemoaned her condition, or when she looked to her bare body in a mirror—she desired nothing more than to have Jon Snow brought before her, so that she may wring his neck.

Unfortunately, thoughts of Jon Snow often came with fond memories. Reminiscence of evenings spent abed, stifling their moans as the household guard of Winterfell moved without mingled with images of Tommen and Brandon, swinging by the ankles from a tree in the garden, all while a frantic Jon stood below, ready to catch them, filling her breast with warmth.

She was fond of him. He was lovely—especially when he smiled a true smile—and more importantly, he made her feel _alive_.

At the feast, he'd seemed unsociable—responding politely when necessary, as to not offend others, but withdrawn all the same. It was a far cry from the Jon Snow she knew; the boy who joked when they were alone; the boy who would spend hours learning her body.

 _Like the spot he found between my thighs,_ she recalled, smiling at the memory.

Not even Jaime—who'd been inside of her times innumerable—had never noticed- _though he never was very attentive with is mouth_.

Yawning heartily, she again was thankful for the lack of company as she slowly faded from consciousness- _awaking in a place that she knew well._

 _Though a new wall had been erected, replacing the collapsed stones of old, through the freshly paned windows she could see the First Keep. She smiled, remembering her nights in Winterfell, Jon moving inside of her like a man possessed or whispering silly stories of ancient evils and blood-feuds between factions in the North._

 _"It's you?" A voice whispers, drawing her attention to the space behind her._

 _Turning bodily to face the inner chamber of the highest level of the tallest tower in Winterfell, Cersei is met with a peculiar sight; a lone girl standing near the middle of the room in a grey, woolen nightdress._

 _All about them, candles the color of snow and small bowls of smoking leaves and branches rest upon the floor, forming a perfect ring about them. In the dim light of the candles and the moon without—full and pale and closer than usual—she can barely make out the girl's features, yet she still feels a kinship to her._

 _"Do not be alarmed," She commands in an accent clearly inherited from the North, taking a step forward. "I mean you no harm."_

 _Now inches from Cersei, her features become more defined; golden ringlets cascaded over one cream white shoulder in a long bundle, with long, lustrous strands falling into her face. "I've waited so long for this moment." She sobs, bringing a hand to her mouth as unshed tears glisten in her eyes._

 _Cersei was thoroughly confused. She'd never met this child in her life, and yet she felt a strange connection to her—a familiarity of sorts. "Who are you?" She asked, her candid approach taking the girl by surprise._

 _Where she expected dismay, the girl merely snorted a laugh. "Of course you don't know who I am." She said—to herself more than Cersei—giggling heartily. "Nuncle Bran is never going to believe this!"_

 _Not for the first time, Cersei felt as if the floor had been pulled from under her._

 _Again, she pressed the girl. "You haven't answered my question, girl." She returned, inflecting more authority. "Who are you?"_

 _A sober expression fell over the girl's face, straightening her features, and for the first time Cersei saw her eyes clearly: purple, like two polished amethyst stones. "My name is Joanna-" She replied, hesitantly. "Joanna Waters."_

 _"Joanna?" Cersei repeated her mother's name, playing with it on her tongue._

 _"Yes," She replied simply. "For my grandmother."_

 _Like a piece falling into place, Cersei could see the resemblance._

 _Though the girl had different eyes and a different nose, everything else could have been taken from a younger Cersei._

 _"I know it's hard to understand, but I can explain," She sputtered. She was clearly excited—her body nearly humming as she grinned from ear to ear. "You don't know how long I've waited for this." She whispered, but Cersei could assume—judging from her appearance—that it had been nearly fifteen or sixteen years. "I have so much to-"_

 _"JOANNA!" A voice called from below, as footsteps quickly rounded the stairs._

 _"Shit!" Joanna whispered, hurrying about the room. "You can't be here. He can't see you!" She hissed, blowing out a candle._

 _"JOANNA!" The voice shouted again, this time no more than a couple of floors beneath them._

 _Confused, Cersei wondered who the girl spoke of. "Who can't see me?" She questioned, but before the girl could answer, a tall, dark figure stepped through the doorway._

 _"Kitten? Everyone is worried—" He started before noticing her._

 _Though he'd clearly aged, Cersei would recognize his face anywhere. "Jon?" She questioned._

 _"Cersei?" He breathed, taking a step back, as though he'd been wounded._

With a wave of his hand, the image dissipates, bringing Cersei back to her outer chamber where an excited Tommen is bouncing on his toes before her, gripping her by the knees.

"Hello." She addresses another of her children, voice thick with sleep.

"Hello!" Tommen exclaims, smiling broadly as he turns his head towards the door, prompting her to do the same.

Standing beneath the frame of her door, a particularly nervous Jon Snow stands at the ready with a parcel in his hands. Behind him, Ser Barristan and Ser Preston stand silent as usual—though Greenfield's white-knuckled grip on the pommel of his sword speaks volumes.

 _He is the son of Ned Stark,_ she reminds herself, thinking back on the events of the preceding week.

Impatient, Tommen sprints across the floor, grabbing Jon by the hand, nearly forcing him to fumble the parcel in his grip. "Come on, Jon!" He urges. "We have to show her!"

With trepidation, Jon follows her youngest to her, dropping to a knee before her as they reach the space before the settee.

Bowing his head deeply, he presents the parcel to her. "A gift for the prince." He says, refusing to meet her eyes.

Eying the parcel instead, the contents are clear before she reaches for it.

Once in hand, she removes the rough-spun cloth, revealing the weapon beneath.

Upon the scabbard, an image of three lions circling one another was embossed in solid gold near the hilt, with the image of a castle upon a hill near the tip of the blade and a shining sun in the middle. Brushing her fingers along the underside of the scabbard, she felt a similar engraving, prompting her to turn the sword in her hands. The image she found was similar to the one she'd seen on the other side, with three stags—wrought in silver—racing after one another where hilt met scabbard, with an image of Storm's End imprinted in bronze, with clouds of silver, shooting golden lightning. The handle, she found, was much simpler, with interwoven bands of leather, bearing a pommel in the likeness of a golden lion, with tiny rubies for eyes.

"I found a likeness of the castles in a library." Jon whispers, head still lowered. "There's an armorer—he made Ser Loras' armor, you see—so I had him forge a blade for the prince."

Glancing at her for the first time, he clarifies. "For when he comes of age, of course."

"Of course." She affirms, smiling down on him, despite the whirlwind of thoughts occupying her head.

 _Was it a dream, or was it something more?_

Though she'd only glimpsed him for an instant, the image of the Jon she'd seen in her dream had been burned into her memory. He'd grown in the time between then and now, having grown a beard and longer hair. Most alarming had been the slender band upon his brow.

"I want to show it to Cella!" Tommen whines, rushing forward to claim the sword.

Pulling it closer to her person, she glares down at him, halting him in place. "Ser Barristan." She commands, urging the knight to step forward. "Take Prince Tommen to see the princess. You will keep the sword in your possession at all times—despite the prince's protests—and you will return the blade to my chambers by evenfall." She instructs, binding the sword in the rough cloth once more.

"Of course, Your Grace." He assures, stepping forward to take the parcel—ignoring the dismayed slump of Tommen's shoulders.

Taking her instructions as a dismissal, the assembled men—and Tommen—offered varied words of departure, before making their way to the door. "Snow." She spoke, halting the boy and his knight in place. Turning to one another, a silent conversation seemed to pass between squire and knight, lasting only long enough for her to speak her next words. "I would have words with you." She commands, nodding to the Lord Commander.

Hovering in the doorway for a moment, the elderly knight seemed reticent to leave his charge with her, though he conceded to her orders all the same. With a hand to the back of the young prince, guiding him forward, he made his exit, leaving her alone with Jon and an anxious Ser Preston Greenfield.

"Alone." She amends, breaking the mask of calm upon Ser Preston's face.

Sputtering slightly, he makes his protest heard in a pitiful. "Your Grace?"

"The boy is unarmed," She returns, drawing attention to his lack of armament and armor with a lackadaisical flourish of her hand. "And I doubt he'd harm a woman with child."

With reluctance, he backs out of the room, shooting a final glare in Jon's direction before closing the door. A glare unseen by its intended recipient—his eyes were only for her.

Alone for the first time in nearly a week, a palpable tension seemed to move through the air between them, robbing them both of their words.

Unbidden, the image of an elder man came into focus, further muddling her thoughts.

A small part of her wondered if he knew what she'd seen; wondered if he could provide answers. _Like the identity of the girl I saw._

"Was there something you needed, Your Grace?" He inquires, a monotonic voice speaking from behind a mask of stone, not unlike his father's.

In spite of her previous warnings, his words hit her like a slap in the face. It was the first time since Darry that he'd spoken to her in such a formal manner. It irked her.

Venom on her lips, she parted her lips to speak, before closing them instantly.

 _I must be patient,_ she chastised, realizing the rashness of her thoughts.

One day—through tourney victories and deeds on the battlefield—the boy before her would be a man that others looked to. That, along with his blood ties to the rulers of the North and the legacy of Ser Barristan the Bold would one day make him a powerful ally. Or a powerful enemy.

With all that he knew of her, and other secrets beneath the surface, she thought it best to keep him on side.

"I thought we might use this chance to have words," She returns, smiling sheepishly—or as sheepishly as possible for a lion. "When you didn't come to me, I thought surely that this—" She paused, thinking of the appropriate turn of phrase for her brother murdering his father's men. "unpleasantness might have hardened your heart to me."

Outstretching her hand—a clear invitation for him to sit beside her—she offers a warm smile, creasing the skin around her eyes to match.

Coming to kneel before her once more, he took both her offered hand and the one she kept on her belly. "Before I returned to the tower, I was filled with joy. I felt like I could face the Mountain again— _with my_ _bare hands._ " He whispered, smiling at what she hoped was the memory of her body.

Despite herself—and the seriousness of the situation—Cersei chuckled, snorting like a boar; and Jon, despite his desire to be taken seriously, chuckled as well.

It lasted for the briefest of moments before the mask slipped back into place. In truth, the solemnity and strain it caused robbed him of his beauty—or at least some of it. "And then I returned to the Tower of the Hand," he continued, as though the moment never happened. "to find my father lying abed, broken, and his men butchered." He concludes, his voice nearly a growl.

"And all the while, I was dishonoring the man he swore to serve." His voice was hollow.

The part of Jon that fought so hard to honor his father had always come into conflict with the part of him that was hers. Unfortunately, the conflict no longer seemed to weigh in her favor.

"Are you implying that my keeping you from your father is the cause of this?" She questioned at a leisurely pace, allowing the words to sink in.

Blood rushing to his face, he jerked back. "I could've—"

"Waited for your father to arrive at the Tower of the Hand?" She interrupted, ignoring the pain in his face. "You are a squire Jon—not a knight, or even a member of Lord Stark's household guard—but a squire. The only purpose you could have served is to console your siblings—which you arrived in time to do."

She meant for her words to be harsh. He needed to understand the futility of his anger, and how truly powerless he was. _It's the only way he'll get stronger._

Taking hold of his chin, she forced his eyes to her own. "One day, you will be a knight of note, Jon Snow." She whispers, urging him to his feet.

Unsure of himself, he rises with little coaxing, towering over her. "From the Wall to the Sea of Dorne, they will chant your name as you ride," she whispered, taking hold of the front of his tunic, while taking the fringes in her other hand. "bearing the sigil of your knightly house," she continues, rolling the wool up to his belt, before quickly undoing the strap. "or perhaps the standard of Tommen's household guard."

Now passed his navel, she griped his shirt in one hand, leaning forward to place a kiss upon his torso. "And each night," she continued downward, taking hold of his hardness through his breeches. "you will come to me and claim your prize."

Reaching inside of his smallclothes, she stroked him slowly, watching in triumph as he slowly slumped over her, breathing harshly into her hair.

It wasn't long before he spilled his seed, staining all the way to his breeches as he nearly fell upon her, whispering barely discernible words of apology and praise into her ear.

Running her other hand through his hair, she smiled, savoring her victory.


End file.
